


Thicker Than Water

by free_pirate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Evil Sam Winchester, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/free_pirate/pseuds/free_pirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean is reckless on a hunt, he is faced with a dangerous supernatural disease that threatens his life (undeath) as well as Sam's. Now, mere weeks before Dean's deal is up, Sam may have to side with the same forces they've always fought to save his brother from this eternal unlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> spn_j2_bigbang '09.

_Oak Harbor, Ohio_

Abigail hates the cold.

She'd probably hate it a lot less if she wasn't being forced to walk home in it. Still, it's pretty bad when she finds herself thinking longingly of the nicely heated office where she works.

The Ohio night is frigid and it feels more like negative-ten than the promised thirty-seven. The radio personality in her cubicle had cheerfully proclaimed this right before Abigail had left. Of course, the woman on the radio didn't have to be out here, did she? Of course not. And neither did her roommate, who is probably curled up in front of the ratty heater with one of their nice thick blankets.

And that isn’t fair at all, because if her roommate had just picked her up from work like she usually did, Abby wouldn't be out here in the first place. It’s later than she liked to be walking. Shadows jump off the old bricks of the downtown strip. It’s so populated during the day but absolutely abandoned at night. The shop front windows are darkened and dead, and the muffled footsteps her converse make on the concrete echo back to her tenfold.

She'd really rather be anywhere but here. There aren't even cars, no headlights coming in either direction to break up the hulking shadows, no sound but the crickets and her footsteps.

She's shaken out of her thoughts by the wheezing of an engine. She looks up and automatically closes her eyes against the light, so bright after so much darkness. No car has passed her since she started walking about four blocks back, and the sight of one throws her off. Abigail eyes it and keeps walking, faster, trying not to appear as though she's fleeing.

It would be fine if the car just went on past, but it doesn’t. Instead, it stops about a half a block ahead.

Panic clogs her throat. This isn’t happening to her; it can’t be. Not here in the most popular part of a town known for its zero-percent crime rate.

She has nowhere to go. Even if she does turn around and go back the way she had come, she can’t hope to outrun it.

The headlights cut off. Abigail backs up against the brick of the closest shop, fingers digging into the grout between the stones like the worn brick is really supposed to ground her. The door opens with a soft metallic pop and a hulking figure steps out of the driver's side. There's no backlight; she can't see any features and he's all the more intimidating for it.

And he's heading right for her.

Cold sweat breaks along her brow and despite the cold night, she's hot all over, fighting with the fight-or-flight instinct inside. She can't fight it; she knows in her rational brain that it isn't possible. Running now would be the best way to go, but she can't get her legs to move. They shake underneath her, wobbly and unstable and completely stationary.

A soft whimper escapes her as she clings to the brick, eyes wide and glistening. She feels the tears roll down her cheeks before she tastes the saline on her lips, and suddenly he's right there, right in front of her.

He's several times her size and that's no hope of running now. Abigail does the only thing she can do: she whimpers again, babbles, "Please -- no, stop... don't..." as he moves in on her. One large hand wraps around her wrist and pries it easily away from where she's gouged the wall.

The last thing she sees before the black of panic and death overtakes her are the glinting of his eyes in the not-quite-light, silver and catlike. The last thing she feels is the sharp ripping of pain in her wrist and the soft gush of wet sliding down her palm.


	2. Part One

"There's a double homicide next town over."

Sam grits his teeth.

"And a girl's gone missing upstate." Dean turns the page of the newspaper, crinkling as he flattens it out against the table. Some random infomercial provides the only other sound in the room and Sam is tempted to turn it up to drown out Dean's voice.

He wants to tell him that these are just normal homicides or missing persons cases, that the last ten or so he's mentioned are as well. Nothing supernatural is going on in this part of the state. Nothing's been unusual about any of them. Just people killing people and a few accidental deaths.

But Dean's persistent.

"Guy found dead in an alley down in--"

"Dean..."

He looks up mid-page, looking innocent and not at all like he's been commenting on every corpse or lack thereof in a hundred-mile radius. "What?"

Sam chooses his words carefully. "Look, there's nothing here, okay? Just -- random murders and people being careless. That's all."

Dean scoffs. "You don't know that."

"Dude, what do you think I've been doing over here?" he gestures to the laptop open in front of him on the bed. "Nothing. Just people."

Narrowing his eyes, Dean folds the newspaper in fourths, crinkling it more than absolutely necessary. Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping.

"Fine then. Find me somewhere where there's something more than 'just people'."

Sighing, he hunches over the laptop and starts a new search. "I don't know, man. It's been pretty quiet lately."

Dean mutters something that sounds like "Tell me about it" and stands up. There's the jangling of keys and he announces, "I'm going out."

Sam listens to the click of the door being shut, the rumble of the Impala as Dean starts her, and tries to fend off the headache that’s starting to pound just behind his eyes.

*

Dean's gnawing on a stick of something tough and questionable-looking he picked up at the last service station. Sam prefers not to think about the content (or lack thereof) of the thing – it could be anything, and he doesn’t trust the obnoxious red lettering that proclaims ‘beef’.

This usually wouldn't bother him, but Judas Priest has just ended in the tape deck, there's a headache building behind his eyes, and he's positive Dean hasn't put another tape in just so Sam can hear him chew loudly and obnoxiously. He wants to make a comment about how Dean's acting more like a cow than his food ever did, but instead he slouches down in the seat and rests his head on the back.

Two hours later, he's just about dozed off when Dean says, "Which way, navigator?" Sam blinks, resists the urge to strangle his brother and rifles through the glove box for the map. He's only half-coordinated; he’s been in the car too long and Dean just jerked back from the brink of sleep. When he pulls the much-abused atlas out, something small and silver clatters to the floor.

When he reaches under the seat and retrieves it, he notices the blinking green light next to the antenna.

It's Dad's phone, and apparently they have a message.

"Huh, message," he informs Dean, flicking the phone open and thumbing through the menu. Dean's uncharacteristically silent as Sam puts the phone to his ear.

It's a woman. Her voice is wrecked like she's been either yelling or crying and static cuts in and out.

"John Winchester? This is Roxanna Kerslake calling from Oak Harbor, Ohio. There's something here I think you'd be interested in checking out. You know where to find me." Click.

Sam frowns.

Next to him, Dean taps the wheel impatiently. "Well?" He takes the left turn-off.

"Uh. Do you know a Roxanna?"

"No, don't think so."

"Apparently there's something in Oak Harbor she thinks Dad'd be interesting in checking out." He flips through the worn atlas to the map of Ohio.

"Let's go, then."

"Don't you think we should check into it first?"

Dean's still silent, which means he concedes the point but doesn't want to admit Sam is right.

For the first time in at least a week, Sam looks down at the wrinkled map and half-smiles.

*

The Harbor Herald lacks much of an online archive, and what it does have seems to be organized for the least amount of effectiveness. Sam sifts through pages of stories until he sees what Roxanna was talking about. The bold headline states 'Local Girl's Body Found'.

He skims it once, phrases popping out at him as he takes mental notes on the state of the body, how long the girl was missing, her name, age, physical description. It's been a long time since he's done this, and he slides back into the task with an ease that comes only with years of experience. There was a time he'd have wished he was this knowledgeable about almost anything else, but he doesn't like thinking about that; they are what they are and he's through disputing it.

Finding out that you're not completely human tends to put things in perspective.

"Found it," he says on an exhale. Dean looks up expectantly.

"Local girl went missing a week ago," Sam continues," they found her body two days ago in the lake." There's a pause.

"Yeah?" Dean urges.

"Uh, her body was completely drained of blood. And they suspect it floated downstream."

"Which means that her killer..."

"Is either downstream or trying to make it seem like he is."

This is why they work better as a team. Something more innate than their training kicks in and their minds work in tandem. The answer was always there, they just had to bounce the possibilities back and forth until they worked it out.

"Worth checking out?" The hopeful note in Dean's voice is not lost on Sam. He hesitates, because yeah, they've made cross-country trips for less, but he wants to make sure this is actually a case, that this isn't just them throwing themselves into work for the sake of working and to avoid driving each other crazy.

"Yeah," he says, bites his lip. "You know how to get there from here?"

Dean grins and Sam thinks that maybe it's worth it just to see that look on his brother's face again. "Dude, Sandusky is the best city ever."

*

Oak Harbor is about thirty miles from Sandusky and as drastically different as it's possible to be. Sandusky is a thriving, bustling city full of people and blaring car horns. It's not close to the lake, but it gets plenty of tourists anyway. Oak Harbor, on the other hand, is called a 'village' even though it's big enough to have a Wal-Mart. It backs up right to Lake Eerie and there are enough blinking vacancy signs to indicate what the tourist season might be like.

It’s the middle of January and it's quiet. Even on Main Street there aren't really cars or people out. It's the kind of town where everybody knows everybody, and that makes working jobs hard. They either have to get in and get out fast enough that any raised suspicions won't be followed up with a call to the sheriff, or stay in their roles (Feds, repairmen, journalists, curious college students...) for the entirety of their stay. As good as they are at it, it's still easier to get finished as quickly as possible and move on.

It seems like a pretty simple hunt, though. There aren't as many supernatural creatures that have a use for more than a few pints of human blood as mass media might have the general public believe. This far north, there are only two of them that really come to mind.

It could either be vampires or a chupacabra, and Sam really hopes it's the chupacabra. He's had enough of vampires to last him a lifetime.

Still, the town looks innocent enough on the outside. Normal shop fronts and a trickle of shoppers making their way down the sidewalk. It's not so hard to believe that maybe that girl's death was just a normal murder. There are sick freaks out there that aren't sub- or super-human.

But that's easy, and if Sam's learned anything in 25 years of living this life it's that things are never easy. Everything's got a dark, secret underbelly, and this town won't be any different.

Sighing, he digs John's phone out of his pocket. There'd been no return call on whatever it is that's up here; either Roxanna isn't that worried about it or she knew John better than most people. His record for returning calls had never been all that great, and it's certainly not any better now. He snorts.

Dean glances at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam answers automatically, flipping the phone open and thumbing through to the voicemail menu. Roxanna's number is saved there, and they might as well call her now they're here, right? He hesitates a moment, hovering over the green button as he glances at his brother.

There's a small beep when he gives in. He raises the phone to his ear and listens to the ringing, hoping that somehow it'll just click off and he won't have to worry about it. He doesn't want to have the conversation that comes after this with Dean no matter how necessary it is, but he also doesn't want to throw away a valuable source. If Dean was thinking straight, he'd know that and let it go, but Dean's not thinking straight and hasn't been for a while now.

At least, he hasn't been since the last time he shot something in the face.

He's lost count of the rings, but it's been too long anyway. Before it clicks over to voicemail, he flicks it shut and shoves it back into his pocket.

*

There's a sign in the ground about a foot from the road that gives the name and address of the apartment complex. Just beyond this is a small parking lot and eight identical brick buildings, each with a nondescript door and a large brass number. In front of each door there's a numbered parking spot. Most of these are occupied, but there's an old Lincoln in the spot for number six that looks like it's seen better days (in 1986).

The windows are dark, but someone's obviously home. Sam checks the address again and frowns.

"She died three days ago. It can't be rented again."

"Are you sure this is the place?" Dean taps the wheel impatiently to the low hum of something playing on the radio.

"Yeah," Sam checks again to make absolutely sure. It's possible that the website he got the information from is wrong and this is the last address they have on file - not necessarily a recent one - but the number of times that's actually been the case is few.

"Huh. Let's got check with the renting office?"

*

The small woman behind the desk looks up disinterestedly from her magazine when they walk in. When she takes in their suits, her eyes widen and she pushes it away hurriedly, calming down her exaggerated gum-chewing to something more polite and normal. "How may I help you?"

They flash their fake badges at her in unison and tuck them away again. "We're looking for information on one Abigail Jones. She may have rented a room here recently."

The woman straightens and fixes her eyes on a spot just over Sam's right shoulder. "I think... I think the name sounds familiar..." Her eyes go wider as comprehension dawns and she snaps her gaze back to him. "Oh, isn't she the girl that was murdered?"

Dean clears his throat. "We need anything you have on her for our investigation."

She looks down at the counter for a moment before hopping off her stool and going into the back room. When she emerges, she's carrying a large filing box that she pushes onto the counter.

"Should be--" she mutters to herself as she sifts through the files, checking the names on a few of them before shoving them back into the box unceremoniously. "Here."

It's a small card with a collection of other, smaller papers attached to it. Sam flips through them, receipts and rental agreements, copies of photo IDs. He pauses.

There are two IDs attached to the back of the card, one for the dead girl and the other for a darker, stricter looking woman. The small, blurred text next to the picture says that her name is Roxanna Kerslake.

"Hey, can we take this?" He asks without hesitation, still staring at the name, rereading it in case he's read it wrong or he's missed something, because there is no way…

"Sure," the woman replies, shoving the rest of the files around in the box and placing the lid back on. "I don't need copies or anything. Good luck with your investigation." She carries it back into the back room. Dean glances at him, eyebrow raised, and Sam points at the ID.

"Uh, isn't that...?"

"Yeah," Sam tucks it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "I think we need to call somebody."

He's on the phone as soon as they're out of sight of the renting office. The Lincoln is gone from the number six space, but the windows are still dark. He checks the recent call list and hits the green button.

A mechanical beeping fills the speaker, loud and blaring, followed by a recorded female voice. "We're sorry, this number has been disconnected. Please stay on the line to talk to an operator."

He stares at the phone for a moment before shutting it, cursing under his breath as he does so.

"Something's not right here," he says unhelpfully, staring down at Roxanna's ID. "It's been disconnected."

Dean glances back at the renting office, and then nods at the empty space for number six. "Car's gone. We could go in."

*

The tumblers fall into place entirely too slowly for his liking. They're out in the open. The woman could step out of the office any moment and she'd see them. Any one of the upstanding citizens in the passing cars could be on the phone to the police department. They've got to work fast.

Sam doesn't know why Dean didn't just do it. He's the fastest at lock picking (at least, he was the last time they actually timed each other, sometime before Stanford), but he's fidgeting for some reason and Sam doesn’t think it’s got anything to do with their exposure. Sure, Dean’s been fidgeting for the past month because he’s anxious and they haven’t had anything to kill, but Sam expected it to stop once that they were actually on a job.

He turns the knob and steps into the apartment quickly. Dean, directly behind him, shuts the door with a solid click.

It's dark inside. There aren't any lights on and heavy curtains block all sources of natural light. After the bright of outside, it takes him a moment to fumble for the nearest light switch.

The apartment is trashed. There's furniture overturned, papers all over the floor, stuffing from the rundown armchair spilling out in a mound around its base. The front door opens to the kitchen, and all of the drawers are either open or overturned on the counter.

It looks like someone left in a hurry. Like someone was looking for something they misplaced and absolutely had to have before they left.

The keys to the front door are on top of one of the overturned drawers. The color of the carpet is lost beneath a blanket of white paper. It's all blank, all new. Like someone did it on purpose. The living room is a disaster area, and they have to step around and over furniture to do the customary first sweep for anything useful.

Something here... doesn't quite add up. If Roxanna was Abigail's roommate... but Roxanna was either a Hunter or someone who knew about what Hunters did, which meant that she probably knew or suspected what had happened to her roommate was more than just a normal homicide. Why else would she call the proverbial Hunter hotline?

But if she was honestly worried about what had happened to Abigail and was seeking their help, why did she leave? The state of her apartment doesn't exactly give an impression of premeditation. It doesn’t look like she'd been planning to leave at the time of her departure.

This case just keeps getting weirder.

"Hey, look at this," Dean calls from a door that Sam assumes goes to the bedroom. When he finally gets there after making his way through the battlefield that is the living room, his brother's sitting on the bed, leafing through a manila file folder.

"What is it?" There are newspaper clippings and lined pages of notes, print offs and maps of Ohio with red X's all over it. It can't be what it looks like. It looks like a case file, and Sam is beginning to believe that whoever Roxanna is, she wasn’t sane enough to put something like this together. At least not in the state she was in when she left this apartment.

Dean doesn't answer, eyes flicking across paper at an alarming rate. Sam sits next to him on the bed, the one piece of furniture that wasn't overturned or ripped apart, and lifts a newspaper clipping from the small pile of pages he’s already looked over. It’s a recent story from a newspaper in southern Ohio, about another murder. The body, it says, was found in a way similar to Abigail's: floating in a local pond, exsanguinated.

"Is this... a case file?" he says at length, because he still isn't sure. It doesn't seem like a reasonable explanation, after all, how often do they get the answer handed to them in the form of a perfectly organized folder with everything tucked away in order of relevance? Never. If things didn't add up before, they sure as hell don't now.

"Looks like it. How did she find all this stuff?"

"Don't know..." He trails off, flipping through one page of roughly scrawled notes. "But Dean, we've got to go. We can't hang around."

It takes him a moment, but Dean nods, gathers up all of the pages and arranges them into the folder and stands up.

*

The papers are spread across the farthest bed, clippings and maps and print offs with notes in loopy writing scrawled across them. There are sections of highlighted text, arrows pointing to things that should stick out, and big red X's on the maps to mark something she didn’t bother to note. Something that she knew, that was so self-explanatory she didn't even have to write it out to the side.

Sam's been pouring over the collection for about four hours, and he's come to a conclusion: Roxanna knew what she was doing. If she didn't, she would have to be crazy; the kind of crazy that makes geniuses of people. There's no way she could have compiled this much evidence without knowing at least the basics.

It's a perfect case file. It's got an extensive profile of the victim: medical records, complete autopsy file, criminal background report right down to a ticket when she was eighteen for parking illegally. There’s every story about the murder from the various papers in the area. Printouts detailing every mythical creature famous for bleeding their victim dry, the most likely ones filed near the top of the pile, and long detailed lists that make no sense to either of them.

She's literally done all the work for them.

It's vampires, and if that wasn't obvious from the first story he ran across on the murder after she tipped them off, the autopsy report and her extensive research would have made it so. They know that this particular group haven't been here long and are staying relatively quiet at the moment. It's always possible they could feed again soon, but it's not likely. They might have already left.

The way that Roxanna compiled the notes, the way that she put it all together in the short span of time since this whole thing started reminds Sam of the way his father tracked Azazel. It reminds him, more recently, of the way he himself tracked down the Trickster during that indeterminate span of time he didn't really live and tries not to remember. It's obsessive and half-crazy and probably doesn’t make sense to anyone but her. Still, there's a lot to be gained from looking over her notes and maps and records.

Dean gave up after the first two hours and wandered out of the room, but Sam really didn’t mind. It's probably better that Dean's gone anyway; he's fidgety, and it's distracting, and annoyance has been roiling under his skin all day. At least without his brother here he can get something done.

When Dean still hasn't returned, nearly two hours after he left, Sam's unable to concentrate anyway.

There is one thing he's figured out, though, after searching through all of the evidence that's been laid out before them: she didn't know where the vampires were nesting. Even so, it's still got to be one of the easiest cases they've done.

He doesn't trust it.

*

"There are several X's on her map, but she didn't have any notes on them. She doesn't say why they're there. I don't even know where to start."

Said map isn’t really adequate - just a computer print-off of a satellite view of the town. Someone who'd lived there for a while might have no problem interpreting it, but they've been in town less than a day and have no such experienced person to work with. When Dean returns, Sam immediately goes to buy a more detailed and readable one from the nearest gas station.

Its spread across the small table, all the straight lines with names printed on them. The most he's been able to manage so far is a vague match up of what might be the main road, but he has no idea if he's right and still doesn't know where the X's lie in relation.

"Didn't the first article say something about the body floating downstream?"

And Sam could hug his brother, because he's been sifting through this file most of the day and he'd completely forgotten.

He refers back to the blurry satellite map. The ones marked in town are still possible, but less plausible, so he focuses on the outskirts (or their rough equivalent, anyway). There are three that could qualify as upstream.

With the kind of country they've been passing, it looks like they might be abandoned farms, which is exactly where all the other vampires they've dealt with have taken up shop. So, with those three marked, they've just got to narrow it down.

"I think I've got it," he tells Dean, marking places on the clearer map. Dean taps out a rhythm on the laminated tabletop but doesn't say anything.

*

When it gets dark out, Dean takes them to the first place on the map.

The heater makes the dashboard rattle. It's another one of those little things that reminds Sam of how far out of his own head Dean's living these days; they haven't had anything to do for weeks and it wouldn't take that long to fix. In any case, he flicks it off and they sit in the silent cold.

Sam was right - it is an old farm. It looks like there was a fire a while back: the blackened barn doors are hanging off the hinges and there's a burned-out spot on the roof, exposing crumbling rafters. It doesn't exactly look like the type of place they'd set up, and there are no cars anywhere around besides the one they're sitting in, but they've got to make sure.

They're a safe distance from the barn, hidden behind a copse of trees. Besides the sound of them shifting occasionally on the leather seat, there is absolute silence. Sam keeps waiting for the sound of a distant engine, some sign of life that would give this away, but none comes. They sit there upwards of an hour, and when Dean finally sighs and turns the engine, something has grown in the silence. Something tense and ugly that Sam doesn't want to examine and at once is intrigued by. He clears his throat and unfolds the map he doesn't realize he's been holding.

"Take a right on County Road 8085. It's a couple miles down on the right."

*

The next place isn't really a farm but a collection of buildings that might, at one time, have been used for storage. It overlooks the lake, and Sam suspects that's part of the reason Roxanna marked it.

Although there aren't any cars here either, something about the way the buildings are arranged must have piqued Dean's hunter instincts. They're huddled together, doors facing each other as through they're exchanging secrets.

He parks the Impala a couple blocks back and hands Sam a machete out of the truck.

Dean digs around in the organized chaos of guns, knives, charms and flasks and comes up with a jar of sickly ruby liquid, almost black after being so long without exposure to oxygen.

"Where'd you..."

Dean shrugs. "There's no security around the morgue here."

Sam feels like he's missed something critical in his brother's character. Dean's more together than he wants Sam to think he is.

He wants to ask, wants to get his brother out on the road where he can't run away and drill him, but he know this is something they'll never talk about. They’ve got a matter of months left, weeks in disguise, and Dean will never reveal this part of himself no matter how much Sam begs him. Sam just wants to understand.

Dean takes a knife out of his boot and a larger one concealed at his belt, unscrewing the jar's lid. The liquid is congealed even though it's technically fresh, and it sticks to the metal when he dips the weapons in. They come away stained black, glistening in the light from the lone spotlight a few blocks back.

He conceals them again for backup and hands the jar to Sam.

Sam isn't so habitual about carrying more than a gun, and he has to sift through their weapons stash to find the knives he's suited to. Dean regards him as he does so, quietly disapproving. He says nothing, holds his tongue like he's been doing all too much lately. It’d be better if Dean screamed at him, then he could at least know some tiny part of what’s going on in his brother’s head.

When he's done preparing the knives, he puts them in easy reach and Dean closes the trunk.

They approach the buildings slowly, quietly, even though the vampires within can probably smell them approaching. They want to hold all the cards they can.

There's no easy way to start this, no way in which they could enter one building and not alert the occupants of the others to their presence. Dean nods to the closest one and moves past, in to the inner circle. Out in the open.

Nothing warrants the warning that tries to struggle its way out of Sam's throat, and it's almost out before he can stop it. This place, the feeling of being back on a hunt again, starts an anonymous itch under his skin. Some premonition or instinct that has nothing to do with demon blood tells him that tonight isn't safe whether the buildings are occupied or not.

It's distracting, and the knot of worry that's been festering in his gut lately tightens and flares.

But he gets into position anyway. Next to the doorknob with the machete raised parallel to his chest, he looks over to where Dean's taken up a similar position at the next building. His brother looks at him expectantly, waiting for the go-ahead. He doesn't want to do this, it doesn't feel right. Something's off. But he nods, and Dean nods back, and he finds himself reaching for the knob.

It's unlocked. Sam looks up at Dean, because this he wasn't expecting. Dean meets his gaze, eyebrow raised, and pushes the door in.

They're empty.

Just metal buildings, standing on the top of a hill overlooking a lake, housing no supernatural creatures.

The adrenaline that held him over this far rushes in his ears. He goes to check the other buildings, finds them similarly unlocked and empty.

Dean stalks off, back toward the car.

"At least we know where they are now," Sam offers on a sigh, back in the passenger seat.

"We hope," Dean grumbles, and starts the car with a force that he usually reserves for things that have hurt Sam.


	3. Part Two

The last place Roxanna marked is obscured by a stand of thick evergreens. The branches fan out and cover the sides of the off-white barn. From the first look-over he gives it, Sam can see the cars parked around the back and he knows this is the place.

Dean takes greater care to park the Impala where it can't be seen and prepares his knives again. Sam does the same. It's harder this time to get the liquid to stick, and concealing it is uncomfortable, but the look Dean gives him makes him grit his teeth. He'll probably need it, and at least it'll ease Dean's mind a little.

All of a sudden, he feels like he's sixteen again, grudgingly carrying a switchblade with him to school because Dean didn’t want him getting hurt if he wasn’t prepared.

The silence pervades.

Sam doesn't know what vampires do in their spare time besides feeding, so he can't tell if they're awake or not. They should come back during the day, so at least they know.

But it's too late now.

They keep close to the side of the building, machetes raised so as to strike at a moment's notice.

They make it to the nearest window without incident, though, which means that either nobody's home or they're remarkably unobservant.

Sam knows they've got to get this nest taken care of. He knows that if the vampires aren’t home, they’re probably feeding. Still, some impulsive part of him hopes that this is a goose chase and the barn will be empty (or at least vacated for a moment) just like the other buildings.

It isn't a very large barn, so it probably isn't a very large group. The only window is dusty and set lower to the ground than one would usually be. It's closed, though, and the dust and darkness make it impossible to see inside. They're going into this blind.

Dean pulls out one of the knives he's saturated and slips it under the window's frame. In the dead silence, the sound of the latch kicking back is loud, and he takes great care not to make any sound as he gently lifts it open.

Stale air rushes out of the opening, air that smells like blood and flesh and death, something rotting in the moist dark. Sam recoils automatically, even thought he's smelled the same scent countless times in the past. It's something that sticks in your mind and doesn't fade over time, but the intensity is surprising when you come across it again.

Dean doesn't flinch.

The opening the window affords and the yawning dark beyond is like the maw of some large, horrid creature, beckoning them onward with necessity and the thrill of the unknown. Natural human instinct tells Sam to run, but he's had so much experience pushing this particular instinct away that is barely quickens his pulse. The deep, complete silence sets the adrenaline rushing more than anything because it means something's not right. Some fatal flaw in the pattern of things has changed it.

It's the same every time they go after something, but it's not something you get used to.

There's a half-second of hesitation before Dean climbs over the windowsill and drops down to the floor, cautious and peering into the darkness. Sam follows closely, waiting for his eyes to adjust so they can at least see what they're facing.

One thing is for sure: something died here recently. He doesn’t know if it was Abigail or some fresher kill, but the smell of death is everywhere.

Something moves in the darkness. It's discrete, just the shuffling of cloth against the barn's concrete floor, but both of them turn at the sound. The darkness doesn't let up even far past the time when Sam's eyes should have adjusted. Whatever's making the sound of movement stays cloaked in the shadows, following them. Calculating.

Dangerous. But, of course, they already knew that. He adjusts his grip on the machete.

They're quite literally blind here. They can't see how many of them there are and they don't know anything besides the fact that they're dealing with a vampire.

From the sound of it, more than one.

The thought isn't comfortable, but Sam always knew this case was more complicated than it seemed on the surface. Vampires travel in clans, but his limited experience with them has never extended to include slinking around in the dark. No, the ones they've met or killed in the past have been right out in the open, waiting for the challenge.

After all, they do have the upper hand, even when they step into the light.

The nature of this particular case in general requires them to throw everything else they've experienced about this particular creature out the proverbial window except how to dispatch them.

While he's calculating, he isn't alert enough. He's stopped paying attention to the shift and play of the vampires' movement and more to the theory of what's going to happen when they come out of the shadows. There's no time to warn Dean when the nearest shadow converges.

The creature jumps out of the blackness, and the glimpse Sam gets of it is startling. Not startling enough to be distracting, but enough to be notable. Vampires are, by general rule, pale and sickly-looking creatures, but these look worse. They look starved and malnourished. There's something more to this than meets the eye, but he doesn't have time to examine it.

Strong, restraining arms close around his throat from behind, powerful fingers digging into his windpipe. Sam struggles for breath even as he fights against the impulse. It's useless to try and pry it off, and he knows that, but one hand still goes to the grip that's cutting off his air supply. He still tries to loosen its fingers.

A half-second later, he remembers the knife. It's in reach of this other hand, but moving to actually retrieve it would alert the creature of his intent. He realizes that he has no choice just as the floating feeling sets in. The few remaining brain cells that haven't shut down pull together and he reaches for the knife anyway, fumbles until his fingers close firmly around it.

In one motion, he manages to get the hilt turned in his grip. He plunges the knife backwards, so carried by momentum and desperation that it meets no resistance as it enters the creature's body. The strong fingers pressing in on his windpipe tighten in pain and Sam sees stars. A moment later they loosen and fall slack, and the weight of it on his back is gone, followed by the muffled thump that means the body's hit the floor.

He barely has time to gasp for the first breath of marvelous air before the others converge on him.

here are two now, one on either side. They're trying to crowd him and make him lash out and let his guard down, a stupid rookie mistake that Sam might have made ten years ago, but not today. Not now.

It's seldom that he gets caught up in a fight that gets the blood rushing in his ears like a distant roar of approval. Of course, he doesn't usually have this many creatures to take down, either. Most routine jobs they've covered have just one opponent and they're able to take it out quickly enough to move on before people start asking questions. They've got a fight on their hands now, though. Sam doesn't know how many are waiting in the shadows to jump them, and he can't see Dean or hear him over the pounding in his ears.

They circle him like buzzards. The light is dim, but Sam can see their gaunt faces and feral eyes, half-shadowed and hungry. They look like they haven't fed in a while, which is puzzling, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and focuses on the task at hand.

There's really no easy way out of this.

When they've circled long enough and he's sure one of them is going to strike, he feigns left. The vampire closest to him backs up to avoid the blow that probably wouldn't have done any damage, but Sam's already lunging back to the right, bringing the newly-bloodied knife up to meet the other one's attack.

He can tell the dead man's blood isn't as potent now that it's been mixed with blood from the fallen vampire because it takes longer for this one to slump backwards. But he only knows from the sound the body makes when it hits the concrete. He's already turned around to engage the other.

The momentum he'd have to build up to take its head off in one smooth slash would be nearly impossible, but there's no other way he can find. There isn't much of the actual blood left on the knife and he doesn't know if it will do anything but annoy it. They grapple for control, for Sam's right to gain the momentum he needs. The vampire is strong, but somehow he manages to hold it off long enough to push it back and raise the machete he's still got clutched in his hand.

The moment he raises it, the vampire's wild eyes go wide. All of his muscles go loose at once and he crumples, slowly. Sam drops the weapon and stares at the body.

Dean's knife is buried so far into the creature's back that it's sticking out from its chest.

Sam looks up to catch his brother's gaze, make sure he's alright even though he knows well enough that Dean can hold his own. It takes him a minute to make out the movement of the bodies in the darkness, but when his eyes refocus it's just in time to see the sharp glass slice Dean's neck. The vampire holding it drops it a half-second later, but the damage is done: a thin line of red immediately bubbles to the surface and gushes from the wound.

It's on the wrong side to be fatal, but even as Sam realizes that he sees red and it has nothing to do with the bloodshed that's suddenly all around them.

It happens so fast that he knows he must have underestimated their speed and accuracy. One moment, he's staring at the fresh wound on his brother's neck and watching the spasm of pain pass over his face; the next, the vampire that did the damage has Dean in a headlock. It's a brief, restraining motion, and then he moves away and Sam doesn't know what's going on.

As he moves toward the creature, he notices the thin line of blood along its forearm. It's a cut, self-induced by the brief glance he gets to examine it, and it's bleeding steadily. But it has a smug look on its face, like it's accomplished something.

It takes all of Sam's training, willpower, and compartmentalizing skills to stop himself from being sick as his stomach plummets with realization. He needs to get across the room but his legs won't work; he needs to fix this, and it doesn't matter that killing the vampire won't actually accomplish anything.

At least at this point he can harbor the pointless delusion that maybe it didn't take. Maybe there wasn't enough blood infused to do anything.

In the half-second it takes for all of this to sink in, Dean’s righted again from the few stumbling steps he was forced to take when he was released.

The bloodlust shining in Dean’s eyes in that moment before the machete connects with the vampire’s neck isn’t supernatural in any way. It has all the potential to become so, but right that second it's just the release of the pent-up frustration and anger that he doesn't let himself vent when he isn't hunting. It's reserved and channeled for the evil things, and Sam's suddenly glad he's never been on the other end of that cold glare.

But as soon as the body falls away, the look is gone – replaced with something fragile. The blood-soaked machete slips and falls from his hand, hits the concrete and clangs loudly. The hand that was clasping it rises to cover the wound on his neck that's bleeding steadily.

Sam realizes a half a second too late that not all of the blood on Dean's hand is his own. Not all of it is human. If the deliberate infusion to the wound had no effect, this probably will. The warning sticks in his throat, and he can only watch in abject horror as his brother winces. Lines of pain etch themselves into his face.

It doesn't really matter which mix of blood did the trick, but it's done.

With the rush of adrenaline gone, Dean's knees buckle. A moment later, the hand over the wound falls slack and he topples backwards.

Sam takes another half-second to wish the ones responsible weren't already dead before he gets his legs to work. They feel like lead, though, and it takes far longer than he would have liked to reach Dean's fallen body. Oblivious to the blood coating his own hands, Sam cradles Dean's head against his chest and checks for vitals.

Thready. A sluggish pulse, and that's something.

It's a vain, foolish hope, but he’s incapable of believing this right now. It’s easier to think that maybe it was ineffective than face what could possibly become the reality.

If they had more time, he would have cleaned up. He wouldn't have left the decapitated bodies and blood all over the floor. But right this second, with his brother's slow heartbeat against his fingers, he doesn't care.

He crouches there long enough for the smell of carnage to overcome his senses, for his fingers to stick together and the mess that's the side of Dean's neck to turn black and congeal. Long enough for the survival instincts that are less actual instincts and more ingrained habit to kick in over the shock and make him move.

He retrieves the machetes first, not because of actual priority but the knowledge that if he allows himself to carry Dean out first, he won't come back for them. Dean would kill him. He needs to move the car closer, but digging around in Dean's pockets for the keys is too much now. Instead, he makes the tedious journey back to the barn and through the window. He nearly slips on a puddle of blood that isn’t dry yet.

There's no harm in using the actual door. Its hinges are stuck from the lack of use and it takes more strength than Sam thought he had to push them open. He carries Dean out, taking care not to notice the heat slowly leaving his body or the too-faint beating of his heart against Sam's own chest. Later, when they're away from this wreck of a place, when they're as safe as is possible, he'll let himself feel the fragile pieces of something that has broken somewhere inside. Right now, neither of them can afford the time it would take to let that particular sharp feeling of doom overtake him.

*

The sun is rising steadily in the rear-view mirror, painting everything behind them red. Red, like blood. Red, like the carnage he left for the next passerby to find if the smell didn't give it away first. Sam knows that Dad would have ripped him a new one for that, but Dad's dead and Dean's all but gone in the seat next to him. He doesn't give a fuck.

He's managed to keep the car on the road so far. It's a small miracle, one that could have everything to do with the way the blood on his hands makes them stick to the wheel because he can't be bothered to stop and wash them. It could have everything to do with the knowledge that their father didn't so much impart as ingrain into them, how to keep it together under severe amounts of pain, fatal wounds, and crazy rushes of adrenaline. Of course, that last one was more suited to Dean than Sam, but he still made them learn it.

Mostly it's because he hasn't stopped long enough to let himself think. It's probably for the best, because something masochistic rearing its head in the back of his mind tells him that he's standing on the edge of a dark precipice. Thinking about it will only bring it closer, only drop him straight into it with no chance of ever clawing his way back up to the light.

Exhaustion's setting in.

Realistically, he knows they've got to stop somewhere and get cleaned up. He needs to check Dean's wounds and make sure the weak, barely-there pulse he felt earlier is still there at all. Realistically, he's so close to giving out from the combined weight of the hunt, the last few weeks of being constantly frustrated, and the dread that's bearing down on him that he shouldn't be on the road at all.

The sign they're passing says that the next town is fifty miles. Sam knows he probably isn't going to make it that far.

Just past the sign is a rest stop. There are eighteen wheelers lined up in a perfunctory row, shiny family SUVs and a U-Haul in the spaces closest to the highway. There are too many people. Any one of them could be walking back from the bathrooms and spot them, Dean hunched against the passenger side door unconscious and Sam's own bloody hands gripping the wheel so tight it's impossible to let go.

It's not safe.

He wants to stop, but he doesn't.

Fifty more miles. Another forty-five minutes or so. He's not going to be able to sleep once they get there - the insomnia's already settled in and he can't avoid hearing his father's words echoing in the black space the exhaustion leaves behind. Once a vampire gets your scent, it's for life.

But he can't let it distract him. The road stretches out before the car, rapidly brightening with the rising sun but growing longer every minute.

The seedy service station he pulls into can't be more than five minutes away, but it feels like it's been hours. It's open, by some weird twist of fortune, but the grizzled man behind the counter eyes him as he pulls the car around to the bathrooms.

They're also outside, and unlocked, but it's a stretch to think that luck is finally paying them back for all the shit it's been giving them lately.

He regrets having to leave Dean alone in the car, unconscious and bloody, as he goes inside to get wet towels.

His own hands are easy, most of the blood on them having either stuck to the steering wheel or flaked and fallen away. He has to shift Dean around to get to his neck, and he has to ignore the fact that his brother is still unconscious long past time for him to have woken up. His breathing is shallow, pulse weak when the wet towel passes over the point on his throat where Sam should be able to feel it.

He tries to avoid putting unnecessary pressure on the wound as he's cleaning it, but the blood clings to the skin. It'll take an uncomfortable amount of scrubbing later on, when they have the resources, to remove the rest.

Dean's hands are easier, though Sam's own shake almost imperceptibly. Once he can see the skin again (pale, too pale) he busies them with getting the heavy leather jacket off Dean’s shoulders. As if just by keeping his hands busy, his mind won't wander.

He finishes as best as he can and wads up the bloodstained towels. Dean doesn’t look entirely presentable yet, but it eases Sam’s mind to see that he at least didn’t look dead anymore. Not as dead, anyway.

He rests his forehead on the cold metal of the Impala’s roof and closes his eyes, fighting away the fatigue and oppressive despair that threatens to envelope him. He has to fight to keep it together, at least for the next fifty miles. There’s no other option. Dean needs him, and for once Sam’s going to be the one taking care of his brother.

There is a mirror hanging in the bathroom. On the way to tossing the paper towels away, Sam can’t look at his reflection.

*

The miles tick away slowly. The last sign they passed declared that civilization was fifteen miles away.

Dean stirs.

It's imperceptible at first; a muscle twitches in his jaw, and Sam doesn't see it. Then his knee jumps, and it shatters the quiet almost-peace of the car's interior - he doesn't have any music on and the only sound is the humming of the tires, the only movement that of the road on either side. Sam swerves, caught off-guard by the movement, and has to jerk the wheel back to prevent putting them in the ditch.

His heart hammers in his chest, deafening in his ears, but it's not quite enough to drown out the small, helpless sound Dean makes. Like he's hurt, but it's everything he's never let Sam see in consciousness.

Without thinking about it, he finds a flat patch of grass past the shoulder and guides the Impala over off the road.

The thing is that Sam knows what to do. He knows what has to be done, in any case, and it's not pretty. He doesn't want to be the one that administers the poison that'll keep Dean quiet for a few more hours, for a few more days. At least until he finds something more effective the bind the monster that's coming to life in his brother's body. But if he doesn't, it won't get done. He doesn't want to think about what will happen if he doesn't do this.

He doesn't want to think at all.

The jar of dead man's blood is lying innocently on the back seat, glass glinting in the sun with a cleanliness it doesn't deserve. It looks like it might not be useable, but it's the only chance he's got. If this doesn't work, he doesn't have a Plan B. Sam reaches for it and for the knife that's somehow found its way onto the seat beside it.

Even as he unscrews the lid his brother is moving again, restless shifting and twisting in the seat. There's a crease between his eyes, eyelids squeezed shut as if in pain. And he tells himself he's helping.

Methodically, he lowers the steel hilt-deep into the jar, pulls it back, watches it stick. Bares Dean's wrist and watches the ruby contrast to the pale skin of his inner forearm. It's almost mesmerizing to press the blade into the skin and watch a small pit appear around the tip, not yet piercing. Some of the sticky blood pools in the indent and when he pulls the blade back because he can't, not yet, and it runs slowly down his arm, loops around his wrist. Poises there, ready to drop onto the leather of the seat beneath.

Dean's fingers twitch.

Sam hesitates.

The red path left behind by that single drop of liquid emphasizes just how pale Dean's skin is. How much paler it's become in the short time he's been observing it. He shakes his head, tries to push the thought away, because if he allows himself to surrender to distraction... well. He just needs to get this done and get into town. Then he can deal with everything else.

He lowers the knife again. It hovers in the static space between what Sam won't allow himself to think of as the living and the not-living. His brother is alive in there somewhere; he's just got to dig up enough lore to figure out how to get him back together again.

Which is going to be a problem, if the sheer magnitude of vampire lore is anything to go by. No way to tell what's pure myth and what's thinly-veiled fact other than trial and error, and that's just not a risk Sam is willing to take.

Focus.

He tries to ignore the way the tip of the knife wavers, the way he can't hold it steady. He tries to focus on Dean's arm alone and not the shudder-start of his shallow breathing, the occasional twitch of a leg or the exhale that turns to a low whine at the end. Sam adjusts his grip on the hilt, and sharpens his resolve.

In the few moments before he brings the blade down, gentle so as to make only a shallow cut in the skin (only enough to get into the blood), everything is quiet. He's holding his breath even if he doesn't know it, no cars on the highway, no birds chirping in the bare trees on the other side of the white-picket fence he's parked them next to. The Impala rumbles on beneath him, idling low, and even that is drown out by the beating of his own heart in his ears.

The rush of blood in his nervousness is not wise. Considering what he's about to do, it's downright dangerous, but he can't stop his hands shaking or his breath from hitching painfully as he starts the slow descent.

Dean's eyes don't flutter open like they should. There's no soft confusion there like Sam would expect. Instead, they fly open faster than he would have thought possible, as if the monster inhabiting Dean's body could sense the closeness of the poison. The way they look when they turn on Sam is anything but human; glassy, sharp green and white in the reds like he hasn't slept in at least a week.

The moments hesitation it takes for Sam to assess this is more than enough time. Dean's nostrils flare, his mouth falls open as if he's trying to get less of Sam's scent and more of his taste. The sunlight has to be playing with the sensitivity of his eyes, but Dean shows no sight of weakness; he's attuned to the warm, living body next to him as a predator is attuned to only prey. Sam has to remind himself that that’s exactly what it is.

He should have made the cut then. He should have listened more to the set of instincts he's acquired for dealing with the supernatural and less to the instincts he has set up for dealing with Dean.

When his head hits the driver's side window with a dull thud and stars that dance their way across his vision, he knows he's made an error in judgment. Dean looms over him, bright eyes shining with honest-to-god bloodlust, teeth bared. The heavy exhaustion mingles with the pain manifesting in the back of his skull and he wants nothing more in that moment then to surrender to the black that's closing in on all sides.

And then his brother keens, a low, throaty sound of need that brings him back to the present somehow. It reverberates through his bones and sends a shudder down his spine. He forces his eyes open and meets his brother's heated, frenzied gaze. Dean is absent from his own eyes, and it's this more than anything that spurs him into motion when the monster wearing his brother's skin bends it's head to Sam's throat.

The knife is somehow still clutched in his hand and the rush of the blood and regret in his ears hasn't gone away, but he manages in the few seconds before contact to get the knife leveled at Dean's side. It's a messy, craftless thrust of the blade, and it bites much deeper than he intended, but before the warm gush even hits his wrist Dean's mouth goes slack and his eyes fog over. He keels forward onto Sam's chest, dead weight.

He allows himself a shaky breath, just one moment of respite before he's wrestling his brother's limp body up and off of him. He positions him in the passenger seat and pushes Dean's shirts up away from the wound he's made so he can get a good look at it, puts pressure on it so it'll stop bleeding. It's another thing he'll have to fix later.

He doesn't rest his head against the seat even if he wants to, to fend off the buzz that's settled behind his eyes and in his ears. He doesn't look over at Dean because he doesn't want to see what's become of them. Sam just puts the Impala in gear and guides her back onto the highway, mindless of the way he's shaking all over. Mindless of the way Dean's too still and the knife tainted with three kinds of blood lies between them on the seat like a barrier.

*

He rises slowly.

Consciousness is just out of reach, like the sparkle of the sun on water as seen from below the surface. When you weren't supposed to open your eyes but you did anyway.

It's a lot like that, but not really. He can't actually feel his body and he's not struggling to breach the surface; instead, it's a weightless rise, the only pressure from something in the back of his own mind rather than the overwhelming need for air.

It's both too soon and not soon enough when he hits the barrier and breaks through. In the split second it takes for consciousness to sink in, he's suddenly aware of several different factors contributing to his discomfort. The same heavy weight that lingered in unconsciousness presses down on him and stops any sounds before they get started, prevents any movement before the electrodes can react to the command.

And really, the worst part isn't the iron cage that's locked down on his body. It's the indifference that comes with it and the knowledge that, had it not been there, he wouldn't be protesting.

Past this first impulse, something deep and ugly washes over him. He knows something is wrong, but he can't remember where he is or when he was last awake. The revelation comes to him like it's materializing through a fog, like if he moves too far away from it or focuses on something else it'll step back and disappear in the whiteout. There's a small part of him that wants to fade back into the black and ignore the anomaly. Maybe if he ignores it, it'll go away and when he finally does wake up again, everything will be back to normal.

Well, as normal as it can be, anyway.

But he doesn't get to put off facing it, because there's suddenly this overwhelming pressure on either side of his skull. It doesn't feel like it's from an outside source, though. He's making himself feel this way.

He remembers, fragmented, that he's been through the sort of pain that makes normal people pass out and not wake up again. Something about this agonizing pressure prompts some change, though, and he can open his mouth but the only thing that comes out is a sort of garbled moan that he'll never admit to later. It's embarrassing, but it expresses (if only acutely) a small part of the pain manifesting itself in his head. It releases it somehow.

"Dean?" The syllable descends on him as if from the end of a long tunnel, a blinding beam of light through the cloud of black that's surrounding his brain, a cold blast of wind in a furnace. It breaks upon him like a wave, laps around him gently. It's broken and assuring and everything he didn't know he's ever wanted to hear.

And then he remembers that this word means something. He can open his eyes.

He automatically shuts them again, because the light in the room stabs at the already-intense pain and magnifies it. Solidifies it. He makes another strangled sound before he can stop himself. He finds he can move his head and he rolls it to one side, finds his arm there to rest it against. This puzzles him for a minute before the nerves in his shoulder twinge at the contact, and the burn is suddenly set deep in the stretched muscles; he's suddenly, painfully aware of the mirroring pain in his other arm.

His arms are stretched out above his head, and apparently have been for a while.

"Shh," the same voice says from across the room, the soothing effect somewhat lost in the muddle of confusion in his head and the lack of proximity. The next second his brain usefully supplies Sam; warmth floods his chest and chases away the unease that's begun to settle there.

And he suddenly understands, remembers the cold and the pulse of blood over his skin. Remembers the pain of the infusion, the white hot arrow that shot straight through his veins, seeped through his heart and spread through to the tips of fingers. And then the deep dark of sickly unconsciousness and the slow ascension back to the world of the living. Of the alive.

There's a dull, rhythmic pulse in his ears, behind his eyes, and he can't tell if it's coming from within or without.

It comes back slowly as anything else, and he only becomes aware of it when he starts to wonder how long he was out. A slow burn spreading through his throat, seizing up on the aching, parched dryness. He probably hasn't had anything to drink since he's been out, he can't have, but this thirst is at once familiar and like nothing he's ever experienced.

And the pulsing intensifies.

Weakly, he struggles with the coarse hemp of the rope around his wrists. He's got to get free, he's got to relieve this thirst that burns away the focus he's trying to build. It's dangerous to lose that focus.

"Sam," he rasps, and he can't quite grasp what he's asking for but he's got to say something before it drives him crazy.

"I'm here." He sounds closer, voice worn almost as thin as Dean's own. A warning flares up almost before he can stop it, clawing it's way up his throat out of nowhere. Dean clamps his lips shut against it, but some vestige of the sound escapes in the form of a weak whimper that he'd never claim in normal circumstances.

And he can hear Sam approaching, the rustle of clothes and shuffle of footsteps. He frowns, because he knew his brother was clumsy, but... he shouldn't be able to hear it. The pounding behind his eyes intensifies smoothly now, coming ever closer as the sound of shuffling feet becomes loud enough to become almost unbearable. It feels like he's got the sort of hangover that comes from about a week of heavy drinking.

He doesn't want to recall the last time that happened, but it's inevitable with a thought like that - the week after Sam left, when Dad wouldn't look at him and they didn't speak because there was nothing to talk about. The memory recall comes so vividly that it feels like someone stabbed a knife into his eye and twisted; he strains as far as he can in the ropes and grits his teeth against it, every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

"Fuck, what --"

"The ropes are soaked with enough dead man's blood that you can't break them, and the binding circle is Peruvian. Bobby found it - I'm sorry." Sam sounds so matter-of-fact about it it's almost painful, until the end - his voice breaks and he tries to cover it up. About a million questions race through Dean's head at the same time - about what happened, about what Sam is sorry for and about the last time Sam slept, because he honestly doesn't sound healthy. But he relaxes back into his bonds instead, resting his head against his own shoulder because it's much more comfortable and doesn't strain his neck as badly.

A long time passes before he's able to find the right question to ask and the right words to ask it.

"How did you know it would work?" It's harsher than he intended, but he has every right to be stern. There's no way to prove something like that does work unless you've got something to practice it on, unless Sam was just desperate enough to go on faith. The latter seems the more likely with each long second that passes between them. Dean can't open his eyes, and he finds he doesn't want to. Sam probably looks just as bad as he sounds.

There's more shuffling. "I didn't." It's slightly defiant, challenging Dean to debate his decision to use it anyway.

"Damnit, Sam!" He can muster up enough heat for these words only before the burning in his throat pulls him back down into silence. Even breathing hurts.

"I'm not going to apologize for it." Sam states simply in a tone that makes Dean wonder, again, how long he's been out and what's happened to his brother in his absence. It effectively ends their communication for a while, as Dean struggles with trying to get more words out. He can feel Sam's eyes on him, watching him closely and critically, ready to take appropriate measures should anything go wrong. Not appropriate enough, in Dean's opinion, but he's not strong enough to argue that point at the moment. It'll have to wait.

"Thirsty..." he rasps when he finally gets it out, sounding and feeling pathetic. He shouldn't have to ask. There's a thought nagging at the back of his mind. Last thing he can remember, they were hunting vampires. He remembers getting sliced by one of them, remembers the razor sharp pain - and he can draw one conclusion from the compilation of these facts. There's no answering throb in his neck when he thinks about it, which makes no sense if the wound was fresh, which means that it'd already healed over.

Which means that he's probably a vampire too, now.

He doesn't know why Sam didn't just fucking decapitate him when he had the chance.

"I, uh. You're probably not going to like it, but it's the best I could do." He hears Sam shuffle closer, hears the chink of glass and the pounding reaches breaking point.

Dean can feel the second set of teeth growing. He scrunches his eyes shut against the pain of them tearing thought his gums, slotting in place over his human teeth, and he has to open his mouth to accommodate them lest they tear right through his lip as well. He can taste his own blood in his mouth and the metallic taste is so utterly perfect it drives him wild. There are animal sounds coming from him, he notes distantly, but he can't care. He needs more, god, he needs more now. That's the only way he can stop the pounding, the only way he can quench the painful thirst that's been settled in his throat for what feels like years...

There's no sound from his brother's direction, but there's still the pounding of blood in his ears. Now, as he hears the soft snick of what he thinks is a jar opening and in addition to the taste of his own blood in his mouth and the sound of Sam's in his ears is the sweet, cloying scent of something he can't recognize as human - thank god, some human part of him is still able to contribute - and he arches blindly toward it.

The cold glass of the jar hits his bottom lip and tilts, and his mouth is suddenly flooded with warmth, sticky and sweet and sickly and wrong and death, but god - he moans and some of it runs out of the sides of his mouth, soaking into the t-shirt he wasn't able to feel before.

He drinks deeply and the thirst is quenched - at least, for the moment.


	4. Part Three

There's a lot of lore on vampires. They're like zombies that way; there's evidence of them in every culture, and in every culture the legends are slightly different. Unlike zombies, though, Sam's not looking for a way to dispatch them.

Through the volumes upon volumes of gore and sex and blood, everything from the colorful lamentations of Anne Rice to the demonic entities described in ancient texts, there is precious little on curing one affected by vampirism. Of course, the common thread connecting this extensive collection is that those affected aren't worth saving: that fate has dealt them this hand to deal with the sins they've committed. The underlying opinion, despite the era, is that ten thousand lifetimes of undeath, of being a creature capable of killing as the vampires of the legends are, of watching people wither and die around you... all of it is more terrifying, more long-lasting and torturous than dying.

Even if that death is characterized by the fire and brimstone of Hell. Unfortunately, those are Dean's options. Sam doesn't want his brother to have to find out which is worse.

The challenge doesn't actually lie in shifting through the rooms of books and scrolls about vampires, though. It's figuring out which legends are effective in practice and which are just that - legends. Most of them are laughable now that they've faced the actual thing a few times.

Another problem arises once he gets past the older European legends; usually, it's pretty easy to determine which are real and which aren't at this point, but now the information they have seems... fragmented. Decapitation, dismembering and burning is found right alongside garlic cloves, crucifixes, and sunlight. It takes the research to a level they've rarely had to visit - separating not only the truth from the bullshit, but the actual bullshit from the fragments of truth.

Sam is rather proud of himself, though - he's been away for about three hours shifting through this crap, and he's only had the urge to throw a book out the window once. Even that might be attributed more to the constant nagging that's eating away at his concentration; he's worried about Dean.

He's pretty sure about the time it takes for his system to recover from the effects of the dead man's blood; he's got another two or three hours if he times it right. But he still feels guilty for leaving him alone, keeps going over the lines of the binding circle in his mind to make sure he got it right even though he’d triple-checked it before he’d left.

Finally, he decides to just check these books out. He figures he could get more done at the hotel anyway, though being in the same room with Dean (whether he was conscious or not) always seemed to be more distraction than being away from him. Sam leaves one of his fake credit cards as a makeshift contract to return the books, and it's not until he's spread them out across his bed that he finds the one he needs - it's an entire volume on curing vampires of their affliction.

There's a plethora of cures that he knows Dean would freak out about and he isn't even willing to look out - ritualistic ones consisting of drinking virgin's blood under the light of a harvest moon on a Tuesday in a graveyard; dangerous ones that detail draining all of the blood out of the vampire and replacing it with living, human blood to get rid of the disease and crazy ones with spikes and metal cages and instruments consecrated by a priest. There are Egyptian rituals with myrrh and thyme and the consultation of Anubis and a variety of other high-range deities that deal with death and the undead - ferrying of souls and all that. But it all sounds... not exactly crazy, because that would make Sam a hypocrite, but flimsy. They sound good in theory, but in practice...

Something's got to work. There's got to be something in this book that's not as dangerous or circumstantial or far-fetched.

Sam glances at the counter of the small kitchenette in their room and counts the mason jars that are still filled with the glistening red animal blood. There aren't enough of them to be secure about it, so he reaches for the jar of dead man's blood on the nightstand and makes a tiny incision on Dean's forearm, grabs the keys to the Impala and takes the empty jars with him.

*

They have to move at night. Sunlight isn't fatal to Dean, but it still hurts his eyes and it's so much less conspicuous to do it at night.

There's a miniature version of the binding circle to be used in confined spaces, and Sam's drawn it in chalk on the roof above the backseat. Dean's going to be pissed about it when he wakes up and finds out about it, but Sam figures he can get away with it. Not to mention that at this point he could care less about what Dean'll be pissed about. He's taking care of his brother and that's all that matters.

Eventually, Dean will see the truth in that.

The highways are deserted, but it's not like they would be any less deserted in the daylight. There's an occasional car passing in the other direction but no one going the same way they are; Sam wonders if that says something about where they're headed.

Physically, they're about to hit some nameless town on the Vermont border. Otherwise, though, the same feeling pervades that has pervaded since Dean told him about his deal; they're headed straight for Hell, even if Dean is the only one who actually sold his soul.

There's a flicker of movement from the empty passenger seat. He catches it out of the corner of his eye and sits a little straighter, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. When he glances over a few seconds later, Ruby is poised on the black leather, arms and legs crossed. Her booted foot taps out a rhythm on the underside of the dash.

Sam grits his teeth.

"What do you want?" It's clipped and unaccommodating, but he can't remember the last time he actually slept and his brother is passed out in the backseat, poisoned because it's too damned dangerous for him to be conscious. He thinks he's got a valid reason not to want demons messing with him right now.

Ruby tsks. "Nice to see you too." Her foot keeps tapping out the random, pointless tune.

There's silence for a while. Sam can tell she has something to say and he's damned near coming out of his skin by the time she finally does decide to speak.

"I see you've got a problem." The mild way she says it makes him want to strangle her, because this is not a normal problem at all. This isn't even a 'problem' - it goes way past 'problem' and right on into 'catastrophe'.

"And let me guess," Sam grinds out, rubbing at his temple with the hand not gripping the wheel, "You can help?"

He doesn't have to glance at her to see that Ruby's grinning. "Yes, actually. I can."

"Of course you can," he deadpans.

"I don't think you'd be interested, though. You aren't going to like it," she continues, as if he hadn't spoken. The headlights of a passing car glitter in her black eyes. "But it will help. So think about that for a while." Ruby pauses, letting that sink in.

"When you're ready, come find me." And then she's gone, leaving Sam more confused than before she'd showed up. He’s curious, now, which is dangerous. Whatever Ruby is proposing - it would be dangerous. He doesn’t doubt that he wouldn't like it. But if it saved Dean...

He worries his lip, flicking his gaze to the rear-view and thinking about the library in the next town. If he could find a cure himself, he wouldn't have to worry about Ruby and her cryptic messages. If he could find a cure himself, anything was possible.

*

"Did you get the one that got me?"

Sam's brought out of his reverie by Dean's hoarse voice. He stretches to ease the kinks out of his back from where he's been hunched over the laptop for the past few hours and sighs, rolling his shoulders.

There are good answers to this question, he knows, but the only thing that readily comes to mind is, 'No, sorry, I was too busy watching you die'. This is not a good answer. He keeps his eyes trained to the computer screen to avoid looking at Dean, strung out and helpless on yet another stupid hotel bedspread. At least he's lucid for the first time in a while. The ache that Sam equates with missing his brother eases a little.

"No," he says finally, "You did." Don't you remember?

"And the rest of the clan?"

Sam's known he was going to catch crap for this since that night. He chews the inside of his cheek. Dean's just going to have to deal with it.

As for being careless, reckless even, Dean is in no position to lecture him.

"I don't know," he says after a moment, rubbing his temples. He should be somewhere in the neighborhood of happy that his brother's come around from all the poison Sam's pumped into his system. "I didn't kill them. Put them out, yeah, but there were kind of more important things going on."

He doesn't mean it to be short, snappish, but somehow it comes out that way. He instantly regrets it. "That's why we left so fast. Once a vampire catches your scent--"

"I know," Dean interrupts with more force than Sam's heard since his brother was human. "Believe me, I know."

Silence.

Sam wonders if it was really his tone that made Dean snap and show some emotion - even if it was negative; at this point he really didn't care - or his use of the word. 'Vampire'. When Dean said 'that thing' or 'it', it made it easier to accept. It made it easier to pretend that he hadn’t become this thing that he was now.

He suddenly remembers the girl they killed on the last vampire case, how confused and mindless she'd been, tied to the chair in their motel room as they interrogated her, and he understands how his brother might not want to be associated with the word, as inevitable as it is.

"So they're still out there?" Of course, this is the lecture he'd been expecting. "Sammy..."

"I know," Sam interrupts. "Just... don't. You would have done the same thing."

Not so long ago, Dean would have protested this statement and told him exactly what he would have done. Which, as far as Sam knew, was complete bullshit because you couldn't know how you'd act in a situation until you were faced with it. Sure, they'd been faced with similar things. Dean could (and would) say whatever he liked about it, but Sam knew what he'd actually do when it came down to it.

Now, though, Dean says nothing. He's either too tired to argue about it or knows that Sam's right. Because he'd done it before, the night Sam died. He let Jake get away. It's not something Sam blames him for (that's sort of the point), and he'll never use it in an argument (the same way Dean doesn't use Stanford anymore), but it lingers in the back of his mind and justifies his reasoning.

Well, justifies his reasoning to Dean, at least.

He's brought, with sudden, startling clarity, back to a tiny examination room in the medical clinic, in a town he can't remember the name of. Not that he'd want to, but that isn't the point. There's a glossy photo of Crater Lake on the opposite wall and the cold steel of the gun in his hand as he held it out to Dean.

So yeah, Sam knows exactly what the situation would have been like had their positions been reversed.

"You have no idea what I'd do."

And Sam knows, without having to be informed by anything but the tone of his brother's voice, that they aren't talking about the clan of vampires he left back in Oak Harbor anymore.

"Maybe I don't," he concedes softly. The words to follow that up are on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to voice them. Some self-preservation instinct stops him. _But I don't know what I'm doing, either._

*

He’s been driving all night again, and he would have continued if not for the rising sun. As it is, he cuts it pretty short; it’s already peaking through the tops of the trees in Northern California by the time he stops and gets them a room. Unfortunately the only one they have left is on the second floor. He’s got to take their stuff up two flights of stone steps and then drag Dean up as well, and by the time he finally shuts the door and throws the keys on the nightstand, he wants nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for twelve hours.

Instead, he pulls out the tome with the binding in it and gets to work drawing the now-familiar lines. When he’s done there, he starts reciting.

He's tired of this; having to do this, the way the ancient words roll off his tongue and into the chalky circles. It makes them glow, confirmation that it's working.

Dean's watching him with his eyes at half-mast. Sam recognizes this look, this glare of grim determination; it's defiance, and Sam is disoriented to be on the receiving end of a look usually reserved for demons and other unfavorable creatures.

But he doesn't falter in his recitation.

He could do it by heart now, truth be told, but he keeps the book open and balanced on his open palm. He wants to be sure, and he wants it to be done. All of it.

Near the end of the ritual, his voice cracks.

Dean's eyes shoot open. The circle around the bed blinks out as Sam clears his throat. It's a momentary lapse, and it's selfish to think so, but he can't go through the whole thing again. His voice won't take it. His fucking head won't take it. Instead, he plows on, hoping it'll be effective anyway.

When he's done with it, he shuts the book, flicks off the light, and shucks his clothes with no regard to where they land before crawling into bed.

*

It's the first time he can remember actually sleeping in a while. His dreams are completely irrelevant to the current situation, which assures Sam that he's not completely insane (yet).

At least until he hears the creaking of broken springs distantly through the thick haze, and feels the soft, careful sagging of the mattress. He rises reluctantly back to consciousness, slower than he would have liked to, but in the few seconds before he finally breaks the surface of wakefulness, his hand snakes under the thin pillow to curl around the hilt of the bowie knife he keeps there now.

Solid weight settles behind him, curled around him, and he knows the moment before he can fully slide the blade out that it's going to be absolutely useless.

Sam stiffens, tries to keep his breathing shallow, but his brother's fingers are already looping around his wrist where it's just under the pillow. His grip is loose, not restraining, but Sam carefully releases the knife.

"God, Sam," Dean hisses into his ear. The hot breath whuffing on the sensitive skin of his throat - bared, god - sends shivers up and down his spine. Whether it results from the close proximity of his brother, the vampire, the predator that he isn't sure he can restrain -- or the regaining of a sensation he hasn't felt in such a long time, and never from Dean.

But he's thought about it. It's impossible not to have thought about it at some point, with Dean's promiscuity and the closeness with which they live their lives. Never as something tangible, though. Never as something possible or entirely sane.

The forbiddeness of such thoughts sends a thrill pulsing through his veins. His pulse quickens, and Dean presses close, a hot, hard line stretched along the length of Sam's body. He releases Sam's wrist and grips his bicep instead, holding tight like something's going to drag him away.

"Can smell you," Dean mutters into the back of his neck, ragged and over-rough and raw. Hearing the exposed desperation there makes something tighten in Sam's chest. It's inevitable for Dean to become this monster. He can't restrain its animalistic urges; he's slowly, begrudgingly sinking into the black hole that thousands of things they've killed have called home. If there was any doubt before in Sam's mind, it's gone now.

His anxiousness is evident in the rhythmic beat of his jugular, close enough to Dean's mouth to make him more nervous about exactly what Dean intends to do. (Or, in this case, intends not to do; he's almost positive that if his brother were in complete control of his mind and his senses, this wouldn't be happening). Sam's completely awake now, and he could be fighting this, but Dean's fingers on his bicep dig into the skin hard enough to leave bruises that won't go away for weeks, hard enough to feel the strain on the bone and muscle and sinew - and he knows it's useless. He won't win. The dead man's blood is across the room on the dresser and the binding (while fresh in his mind, always fresh in his mind) is ineffective without the chalk circles. He's a fucking walking buffet.

Dean shifts behind him and Sam feels the almost imperceptible blunt scrape over that critical point - entirely human teeth in a grotesque parody of the potential violence in the situation. Sam's fist clenches where it's still under the sheets, but he restrains himself from exerting too much effort - if he broke the skin... he'd rather not think of what his fresh blood, the smell of it and the sight of it, would do to Dean.

A moment later, though, the blunt human teeth are replaced by the distended set of fangs, like shark teeth in their neat, sharp, dangerous rows. There's a sharp prick followed by a deep burn, and Dean's deep, satisfied sound is enough to turn Sam inside out.

"Dean..." He starts, trying to reason with something inside of his brother he still recognizes; he's surprised by the huskiness of his own voice. "Dean, don't... you've got to fight it."

He chuckles, deep and dark like the precipice he's skirting, and laps at the blood welling to the surface of the shallow cuts he's created. Kitten-licks that collect next to nothing, and the heat of his own blood mingles with the heat of Dean's saliva mixing on his neck. Sam wants to scratch at it, fist clenching tighter. It doesn't matter now, does it?

"Do you want me to fight it, Sam?" Dean asks. His voice is dangerous, low and sharp like sin, and he releases Sam's arm to snake his hand down under the covers, finds the hem of Sam's t-shirt and rucks it up to feel the smooth skin exposed there. The desperate, pleading tone is gone; Dean's made up his mind, or the thing shining through his eyes has done it for him. Sam fights with his instincts not put pull away from his brother's hand, roving over his chest and sides. He doesn't realize until several long seconds later that he's required to answer.

"I-- yeah, Dean. Please," It's not weak, the way he manages to say it. By way of answering, Dean nips at the back of his neck, hard. Hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to make Sam have to fight twice as hard to restrain himself from struggling. Hard enough that Dean makes a predatory sound, a low moan that reverberates through his chest as he sucks at the wound.

And now Sam does struggle, as much as he knows it won't help. It hurts his pride as much as his neck, what Dean's doing now. What he will do, later. And when Dean kills him, bleeds him dry and can't revive him, his brother will go to Hell, because he sold his soul to bright Sam back the first time he died. This whole year of shit will have been for nothing.

As willing as he is to shred his dignity, he won't let Dean rip away his own. Not, at least, when he's in this fragile state of being and mind.

But even as he's completely absorbed in the warm, unbelievably sweet flow of Sam's blood, Dean's hand splays in the center of his chest and presses, effectively holding Sam back against him. When he wrenches his mouth away, just as Sam's starting to get dizzy, he's panting with the effort of it.

"So hard," he rasps, "So hard to fight it. No fucking idea." Bruises form around his fingers. Sam hisses out a breath at the five identical points of pain, and his lungs contracting only add to the burn.

"That's it, Sammy. You gonna let me fuck you? Gonna let me lay you out and open for me?"

Sam jerks, and the pain blossoms in his chest. Of all the things he imagined Dean wanted -- that wasn't one of them. True, he'd thought about it that way at first, but it's something entirely different coming from Dean. Feebly, he tries to scramble away - his coordination is down, and his head is light. He feels drugged, but that's not possible; as far as he knows, nothing but Dean's blood is venomous.

But his brother isn't waiting for an answer, and Sam suddenly feels like he's in no position to deal with things that carry this much gravity.

Dean's fingers relent on the bruises he's created, releasing him slightly. They move slowly over the hard, smooth planes of Sam's abdominal muscles and back up to flick his nipples on their way to the base of his throat, wrapping around and pressing on his windpipe until he's sputtering. Sam brings his own hand up to grip Dean's wrist, and he lets go without protest. He can feel his brother's inhuman smirk on the skin of his shoulder.

He obviously doesn't think that Sam'll run at this point, or even try to. Maybe there is something in his saliva after all; it's not like they've ever researched that particular facet of a vampire's power. It's completely possible, and Sam is completely screwed.

"Yeah, you're gonna let me. Be so pretty and mine, won't you? Off," he adds, tugging at the hem of Sam's shirt. He manages to get it up around his chest before he has to force Sam's arms up. He only pushes it so far as his wrists and lets it tangle; Sam can get out if he wanted, but he won't. He's suddenly struck by the similarity of this scene to one years ago, when he was little and needed Dean's help. And isn't that a fucked-up thought to be having in the midst of all the other fucked-up thoughts?

"Dean," he says, with nothing to really follow it up. He might have wanted to say something to make Dean stop, but when he gets to the words, they won't come out. He can't want this.

"Shh, Sammy. Make it good for you. Make it so damned good," his hand, absent since he bound his brother's wrists, suddenly reappears at his hip. He rubs tiny circles there, like he's trying to be comforting. And it works, despite the circumstances; Sam hates himself for relaxing just that extra little bit that lets Dean think this is okay.

He has to keep reminding himself that if he was to do anything, struggle to get away - Dean is stronger than he is. He could end it just that much faster, and with his prior knowledge and current strength... It wouldn't be pretty. But his sacrifice shouldn't have to be in vain. Sam has to keep himself alive for Dean.

So he grits his teeth and doesn't flinch when his brother's hand inches beneath the sheet, under the elastic waistband of his boxers, and dips inside. He doesn't flinch, but his whole body stiffens. He tries valiantly to be into this - really, he does, but he can't get passed this crawling under his skin that makes him want to flinch away.

Dean cups Sam's soft cock, palming him gently while his fingers fondle his balls. "C'mon, Sam. Know you want it. So good," he licks a dirty stripe up the side of his brother’s neck, hissing in his ear in a tone that would probably be considered seductive in normal circumstances. Now it's just wrong.

But Sam feels himself hardening under the attentions. He lets out a strangled, astonished sound that makes Dean chuckle. He tries to tell himself that it's a knee-jerk reaction, that his body would do this with anybody, but it isn't true. His brother's firm grip on him feels amazing as he strokes, encouraging, while he keeps talking a stream of filth that makes Sam blush with the loss of whatever dignity he feels he has left.

He doesn't know how long they stay like this, with Dean stroking him, coaxing him to fullness. It's odd; this isn't required. Dean could take him by force in his present state and he knows it. Maybe this is the small part of his brother still living in his body, wanting to make sure Sam wants it to assuage some of the impending guilt.

Sam's hips move of their own volition, arching into Dean's hand, seeking more friction. But his brother takes his hand away just then, leaving Sam whimpering and thrusting against the air. So close, fucking close... Dean has no right to tease him like this.

But Dean's fucking laughing at him and the desperation he created. Gritting his teeth, Sam changes direction, grinding his ass back against Dean's erection.

Dean's whole body still and he lets out a ragged little sound, nipping at Sam's neck and ear with frightening vigor. "Just for that, nngh, gonna fuck you open with your own fucking blood. Will you let me do it? Let me... ugh..."

He doesn't get a chance to answer, because Dean pushes at his shoulder and rolls him onto his stomach. It clenches with anxiousness and disgust; the main attraction is coming soon, and he's still fucking into the mattress because it relieves at least some of the pressure from his brother's teasing.

He just wants it over with. But Dean is taking his sweet time, mapping out Sam's back with his hands and tongue like this was perfectly normal, like the circumstances weren't severely estranged and he was only driven to this by some bizarre bloodlust that wants more than blood.

"I--"

One moment Dean's beside him, though his head is turned the other way - he doesn't want to see the look in his brother's eyes - and the next Dean's straddling his hips, one fluid movement that he didn't even feel. He squirms under his weight, because this isn't okay. Now that they've got down to it (and he never agreed to get down to anything) it's weird and wrong. Not that it wasn't weird and wrong before, but... it's different in theory than in practice.

"Want it, don't you?" Dean asks, close to Sam's ear again. His weight is stretched along the length of his back, hips stuttering, shifting around on top of him. As if realizing that Sam's not completely naked yet, he pulls at the waistband of his boxers and snaps them back into place. It makes Sam jump; it doesn’t hurt, but it’s sudden.

The next time Dean’s fingers wander under the waistband, though, he pulls them completely down to tangle around his ankles. In the same swift movement, his fingernails dig into the cut that’s already crusted over with dried blood on the back of his neck. Sam winces and buries his face in the scratchy pillow; it smells like soap and sweat and the people that slept in this bed before. And his blood, as it drips down his neck and hits the white linen.

His brother’s fingers slip through the crimson mess there; he coats them liberally, at least, which is something of a small miracle as far as Sam is concerned. Even if those fingers are going to be up his ass.

He shudders.

Dean obviously feels it and stops, scraping his fingers down Sam’s spine and presumably leaving crimson trails of his blood there. “Aw, baby, don’t be like that. You’re gonna feel so good.” His bloodied fingers slip down the crease of his ass, skimming over Sam’s puckered entrance, barely dipping inside before roving down and back up again.

The prep is messy, not nearly enough, and Sam has to visibly fight to keep himself still. When Dean finally pushes his way inside, the torn, raw feeling radiates. It’s not smooth. It’s rough and dirty and Dean actually has to reach for Sam’s cock to get him interested again.

Dean comes first (of course), spilling deep inside of Sam. If he felt dirty before, it doesn’t describe what he feels now. In his last few messy thrusts, though, Dean’s spurting cock rubs over a place that makes Sam see stars, and before he knows it he’s coming as well; his own orgasm starts as Dean’s ends. The ripples run all over his body, and his ass clenches around his brother’s spent dick; he gives a little whimper of pain at the over-stimulation, and Sam thinks that it serves him right.

*

By the time Sam wakes up again, sore and headachy and more tired than when he fell into bed, it’s early morning again. So early the sun hasn’t even risen yet. It means they’ll have to stay here for the next day at least, which isn’t very high on the list of things he wants to do.

Facing Dean doesn't even make the list, though.

He’s halfway through hoping that it was all some twisted dream brought on by his own exhaustion when it sets it: it isn’t ever a dream. It’s always real. As he shifts slightly, pain spreads through his limbs, and this is confirmation as much as anything.

Slowly, he crawls out of bed. Dean’s still lodged behind him, and as Sam finds his clothes in the dark and turns the handle on the door he tries very pointedly not to let his eyes stray.

God, he needs a shower.

He probably looks just as bad as he feels. There's blood congealed on his neck, and as he scratches at it, it flakes and his fingernails come away red. The smell of Dean is all around him, and it nearly makes him sick with the knowledge that he let this happen. All this time he's been trying to keep them fixed, keep them together and sane, and he ended up fucking up bad enough to break them again.

This isn't... this isn't right, isn't acceptable, and Dean will be pissed that Sam didn't stop him. Of course, there isn't much Sam could have done, but it's the principle of the thing.

His gut twists.

He gets down to the first level without any destination in mind. After standing there a moment, he goes to sit on the pavement and rests his back against one of the Impala's tires. For a while, Sam just sits there, staring down at his own hands and the flaked blood that's ended up under his fingernails. His shoulders ache with being held at an odd angle all day and night. The shirt he was wearing yesterday, that he's wearing now, was twisted around his wrists all night and he was too exhausted to notice.

Just like he was too exhausted to notice that he hadn't bound Dean correctly.

As much as he tries not to think about it, it's hopeless.

The lights hanging in front of each door on the downstairs level flicker and go out, and at first Sam thinks it's because the sun has risen enough to see by. A moment later, though, they're back on, and he finds himself staring at a pair of black boots instead of his bloodied fingernails.

"I'm surprised at you," Ruby says. "I thought you'd have called me by now."

"Don't need your help," is his automatic response, and his voice is wrecked.

"So you're going to let him suffer? You're going to let him stay like that?" She's condescending and she has no right to be. Sam clenches his fists and fights off the urge to hurt her, because that won't help either. He's helpless against any of his foes now.

"I'll find something on my own. I don't need your help," he repeats, looking up at her.

Ruby snorts, "Oh, because that's going so well. I know where you've gotta look. I know what you have to look for. You just need to agree to let me help you."

For a pathetic half-second, he almost wants to agree. Because he's not getting anywhere. He's not going to get anywhere with the pace he's going; there's nothing anywhere he's looked that's the least bit helpful.

"How do you know you can help?"

"Because I know things that can't be found in any of the places you're looking," she smirks.

Sam bites his lip. He's just down enough right now, just this side of a the black pit he's been skirting since all of this started, and it's so tempting.

So tempting...

"Alright," he grits out. "What do I have to do? What do you know?"

Ruby grins. "Where would you like me to start?"


	5. Part Four

They're never going to talk about it. It's a given, and Sam expects it. The tension stretches between them in the strained silence, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Despite the mindless drone of the TV in the background, the lack of sound is deafening. It's like each of them is afraid to breathe wrong, to break this fragile shield of their mutual discomfort that keeps them from having to talk about it.

Sam tries not to shift too much on the hard motel chairs; he doesn't want to draw attention to himself. Of course, it's not like Dean is paying attention or even facing his direction. Since Sam returned to the room, he's only been afforded the view of his brother's tense shoulders.

Some dark, masochistic part of him wants to talk about it, though. It's become the elephant in the room (like something like that couldn't ever be the elephant in the room) and it's a vain hope, but maybe if they talk about it it'll go away. Even though he knows that won't work. It never does, never has, and it never will. Maybe with normal people, but not with Dean and not with Dad.

But they're sitting as far apart as the small room will let them, and it's killing him.

He clears his throat but Dean doesn't move. He doesn't give any sign he's heard. Sam's been studying the finer (and not-so-fine) points of his brother's behavior his whole life, and that's definitely a sign that he isn't ready to talk about this. Further, if he were even speaking in the same space as his brother right now, he'd be telling Sam to shut the fuck up.

"Dean..." and even though it's a soft sound, barely louder than the TV, it sounds loud and obscene, out of place in the terse quiet they've created. He focuses on Dean's stiff shoulders, willing him to turn over or look at him or, fuck, yell at him. It'd be so much better than this.

"We've been here too long." And even though they haven't been in this town but one night, it beats saying that he really doesn't want to sleep in the same bed that they... There's still blood on the sheets.

He feels better once it's out there, though he makes no move to gather their things. But his brother still doesn't respond. Sam sighs.

"You've got to get out of here." It's so sudden and unexpected that Sam jumps. Dean's voice is hoarse, dry. He sounds thirsty, and tired, and if Sam didn't know better, a little like he'd been crying.

The words penetrate the fog he's built up and bring him up short. He isn't quite sure what Dean means, but the first conclusion his mind jumps to is that Dean doesn't want him around anymore. He's glad that he isn't looking, because the complete open and hurt look he knows is all over his face is embarrassing. Better kept hidden. Yet he doesn't make a move to turn away, because he knows somehow that Dean won't turn around. It's the same thing that keeps him from going to the other side of the bed and actually talking to his brother; he isn't sure he'd be able to meet his eyes.

The second is disbelief. That Dean would even think he'd leave, or that he'd even consider leaving after all this shit they've been through, while he's been taking care of his brother and slaughtering cows for him, and... doing the same thing Dean would have done in the situation. He has no right to even assume that he doesn't deserve it or whatever.

Whatever's going through his mind right now can't be pretty, but Sam wishes he knew. Things would be easier if he could just get that slight glimpse of what his brother meant. Easier than talking about it, anyway, because Dean is being as closed off as he was a few minutes ago, only now he's being cryptic about it. Unusual. Sam gets the feeling it's not something he wants to say, but something he feels he has to, which opens up a whole new level of doubt and forced indifference.

"I'm not going anywhere." He's very proud that his voice doesn't shake.

There's a small sound of disapproval from the other side of the room.

"Hunters will come. I can... take care of myself, now. You don't have to hang around and wait until they come to kill me."

"Dean, I'm not--"

"Don't give me that. You're not going to stop any hunters from getting to me. Think about it - they've got to notice something sometime. If we..." Pause. Sam thinks this is probably the most he's heard Dean speak since he woke up, groggy and disoriented from the dead man's blood and the recent change. "If we were still out there, and we'd heard about the cattle mutilations-- we'd have come to check it out. If we'd have noticed it, someone else probably will, if they haven't already."

"You don't know that," is Sam's automatic defense, though he knows it's probably true. He doesn't want to deal with this right now.

"It makes sense. Listen - I don't want you around when they come," and his voice is now serious, low, the way it gets when he means for Sam to listen, really listen. "Just go, Sam. Go... I don't know. Get a job or something, start a normal life."

"No," he says, simply. They can't have this argument. It's stupid. It's not what they should be talking about, given last night - and maybe because of it. "Drop it. I'm not going anywhere."

And it seems for a few minutes like Dean really has dropped it. It's unlike him to have accepted something like that so quickly, and with minimal fight - but this whole thing is unlike either of them.

*

Dean can still taste Sam on his tongue. The sweet, metallic taste of his blood is a heavy taint, taunting him with dark and thirst and something so completely human. He's never had human blood before, so there's nothing he can compare it to, but just that small taste of his brother's blood - his head reels. It's like the first taste of sweet, cold water after a century of the warm, dry stuff.

He can still taste the iron on the air, and it's driving him crazy. He isn't sure if it's from the room itself or Sam's presence - with his live, beating heart and soft whoosh of breath.

This is why his brother has to leave.

In truth, it's probably not the only reason. Dean has no doubt that Hunters will come. If they're merciful, if they know them, they'll give Sam a choice. If they aren't, they'll kill them both.

But he doesn't want Sam's life to be placed in anyone's hands, merciful or not. He doesn't want it to come down to that. Sam will always make the wrong decision, and he'd die for Dean just as surely as Dean is slowly killing himself for Sam.

Sam's already making the wrong decision by sticking around. By not killing Dean when he had the chance (and he's had plenty of chances while Dean's been out). By feeding him and keeping him alive. He's a parasite now.

A monster. He could have ignored that before, but not now. Now that he'd already let it take hold of him once. The bloodlust was too much, the lack of proper binding too much to resist, and the warm, almost pliant body he'd found waiting in the other bed too sweet a prospect, no matter who it'd have been. It just had to be Sam.

If he was capable of being sick at this moment, he'd be retching.

As disgusted with himself as he is, he'll have to deal with it later. Compartmentalizing that feeling, that set of memories away, he focuses almost entirely on how he can get Sam to leave. Being in the same room with his brother isn't safe anymore. He isn't sure what he'll do next time, and that prospect scares the hell out of him more than anything else. He'd take the Hunter over the prospect of hurting Sam again any day.

Hurting Sam worse.

He doesn't know how he's still living with himself.

"Please."

Sam doesn't even hesitate. "No. I'm going to cure you."

The knife that’s been embedded in his gut since he regained consciousness twists.

There is no cure. Dean knows that, just like he knew that there was no way out of his Deal. Is no way out of his Deal.

And that's something he hasn't thought about in a while. He's got, what, two weeks left, if that? Why is Sam so determined to find a cure, then? It's already hopeless. He's going to die in two weeks (possibly less) and Sam will have wasted all that time, energy, and effort for nothing.

"Don't bother," he says, and the bitterness creeps in even as he tries to keep it out. "How much time have I got left, Sammy?"

There's a short silence. Dean almost doesn't want to hear the answer.

"Ten days," Sam answers, voice almost as hoarse as his own. Dean lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"Like I said, don't bother. In a few days it won't matter whether I'm... like this or not." He hates that he still can't say the word. It's like saying the word will make it true, but at this stage of the game, it's sort of not going away. He'd have thought he'd be used to it by now, if anyone ever really got used to being a vampire.

"I'm going to save you." It's a declaration, a statement, something that Sam is painfully certain of. Dean wishes he wouldn't. It's no use, and it's just going to hurt him more in the end.

But he doesn't say anything else, because what do you say to that, anyway?

*

The night air feels nice on Dean's face. It's one of the first times he's actually felt it since he was human, and its warm now. Last time he remembered, it was cold.

He frowns.

The stereotypical billowing black cape is missing. In its place is his old battered leather jacket. Its weight feels good on his shoulders; it's at home again. He doesn't have the car keys, and maybe that's what he feels like he's missing. The Impala sits in the space right in front of the room as always, gleaming under the glow of the streetlight. She looks better than he remembers, but maybe that's because he's only seen her in his human memories. Most of those are fuzzy. He has no doubt, though, that if he were to get behind the wheel, the feel of her under his hands and the rumble of the engine would come back to him crystal clear.

As it is, though, he can only run his hand along the black metal of her hood, down the side of her sleek body. If he had the choice, or the time, he'd spend some time here.

But he doesn't. He's got to get going so he can get back before morning.

Outdoors is a cacophony of tastes, scents, feels that he's never experienced before. The inside of the motel room (rooms; room after room with the same white ceiling and various ugly walls; the drone of the TV and the sound of Sam's breathing, sometimes typing, sometimes the turning of pages; the couple in the next room arguing and the slam of a car door three parking lots over) is imprinted in his mind from weeks and weeks of seeing and hearing nothing else.

He takes a moment, even though he knows he probably shouldn't, to lean against the trunk and take it all in, get over the overwhelmed feeling so he can hunt quickly and effectively and without distraction.

There's a field Sam told him about a few miles out of town. He doesn't know how fast he can get there; he might have to walk like a normal person. Of course, he was counting on getting a chance to use his super vampire powers (which is twisted), so that would be kind of disappointing.

Less disappointing is the fact that he gets there in less than ten minutes.

He hasn't been smug about anything in a while. In fact, he can't remember what it feels like to feel this awesome. The small box of Sammy-shaped thoughts is locked away securely in the back of his mind, and there are about fifteen different issues he isn’t thinking about, but at least he's out. He's able to get his own food.

It's good.

Not quite good enough, though, to mask the all-too familiar burn in his throat. There are about twenty cows in the field, young, healthy cows. He's tired of cow blood, if he'll let himself admit it. Dean won't consider any other kind, though, so it's got to be bovine. Even if every time he tastes it reminds him of Sam's heavy, heady taste. Addicting. So much better.

And just like that, the awesome feeling is gone.

For lack of anything better to do (and to keep his mind from straying too far into his Sammy-shaped thoughts), he watches the cows. Watches until one of them wanders off to get lost in the trees at the edge of the meadow.

He'd have thought that it'd be difficult, the first time. Apparently, though, the hunting skills are innate. He's got the cow down in less than five minutes, even as its legs flail uselessly at the air. Even as Dean snaps it's neck without a second thought and bows his head to the creature's furry, stinking neck.

Before, he's never appreciated just how much Sam'd had to go though to get those jars full of blood for him to feed.

The moment his second teeth break the skin, though, all thoughts of how disgusting it is and how Sam's throat had been so much softer and willing and good, so good... they all fade. He's lost in the flow of warm, sweet, the dying beat of the cow's throat as he drains it. He sucks harder at the wound, feeling its heart give out.

He isn't even halfway to sated until there's no more for the body to give. He doesn't know how long it's been, but he knows he's still safe. It's still dark. There are more cows, on the other side of the field - and he wants, now that he's had his first actual taste of the hunt, of the fresh, still-pumping gush out of its body...

There are footsteps through the covering of leaves behind him.

Dean can hear the jackhammer of a human heart. Afraid. The breathing is heavy in its chest, not loud enough to be perceived.

Careful.

He turns around to meet it. The spotlight up by the big farmhouse barely casts enough light to see, but Dean can see perfectly. He can see the man step out from behind a large oak and dart behind another. He's stalking Dean. Along with the smells of the earth, the night, the corpse of the cow on the ground near his feet - something sour that he recognizes. Poison. Dead man's blood.

This man is a Hunter.

He wants to run, but he holds his ground. He can beat this man, because at one time he was this man. He knows a Hunter's approach to a vampire, the way a Hunter acts and feigns and tries to get the creature's guard down. Being on the other side of those attentions isn't easy, but it's useful.

He can escape this man.

The Hunter is getting closer, closing in and assessing his target. He can't quite see yet, so Dean leans back over the corpse. Trying to seem occupied. Trying to get the Hunter to strike first.

Because that's what he would have done, not too long ago. The knowledge is almost painful. He pushes it back like he has so many things lately. Not now. He can't afford it now.

Steel flashes in the moonlight. The Hunter's knife comes closer than he was expecting, almost contacting his skin before he can dodge it. The guy knows what he’s doing.

Dean stands up and turns, just in time to dodge another swipe of the knife. His new dexterity won't allow him to step backwards (he'd trip over the cow carcass), so he goes sideways.

The Hunter's cold eyes follow him. It distracts him for a moment, because he recognizes that look. Not the face it's on (thank god), but the hard look of a killer. The look at told its focus that it was going to die and it had no choice in the matter. The singular focus and no-mercy look.

He'd seen it too many times on Dad's face. He knows he's worn a shadow of the same look. He's even seen Sam look like that a few times.

It's scary.

In the second that he hesitates, the Hunter raises the thick, cruel blade he’s been keeping at his side. It's a capable blade, Dean notes absently. Enough to cut through bone, sinew. Enough to cut straight through.

The moment before it comes down on him, Sam comes out of nowhere and grabs the Hunter's wrists, twists expertly. Dean can hear the bones splintering and breaking apart, and the Hunter drops the blade with a gasp and a solid thunk of metal on grass.

Before he can register what's happened, Sam's own knife is sticking out of the man's throat and his brother is standing over the body as blood gushes out of the wound. As the Hunter - a fellow Hunter - grabs at his throat and gurgles.

This is what he's turned Sam into.

The smell of blood finds him, carried on the breeze, and he's soon clutching at his own throat. He closes his fingers into a tight fist and squeezes until it passes. He won't. He's not that much of a monster - not yet.

"Dean..."

"We're leaving. Now." It's as much as he can rasp out, and then Sam's got hold of his elbow and it's so much worse because all of that warmth seeps in to his skin and-- He's being led away, and the red around the edge of his vision has passed (as far as he can tell). The warm night air hits him again, with only the scent of Sam on it and the faint traces of cow left on him.

It's a long way from okay, but he'll take it over temporary insanity.

The urge to say 'I told you so' doesn't pass so easily, though.

*

It's mostly what Ruby says that makes Sam think about it. Sure, he's thought about it plenty, to the point of single-minded obsessiveness that reminds him a little too much of his father; but he hasn't thought about it in this light. He wouldn't ever have thought about it, either. Dean's Deal and his disease are two different problems.

But it never occurred to him that maybe one could help solve the other. And if he could get one out of the way, he'd only have to focus on the other one.

What he finds when he does actually start looking for it sounds too good to be true. Of course, the legends (as always with vampires, werewolves, zombies...) are different everywhere. Every culture says something different, but the ones that mention a vampire's soul at all seem to agree: a vampire is a soulless creature.

At first, this information is overwhelming. He knows exactly what it might mean from the moment he reads it, but he forces himself to step back and consider the situation.

According to about five different sources (and he really should look for more; he must have checked thousands of sources in the last few weeks), vampires don't have souls. Dean is a vampire. Dean's human soul has an expiration date stamped across it that's just a few days away.

But vampires lose their human soul when they're turned, which is part of the reason they're supposed to be such mindless monsters. They aren't mindless monsters (at least not the ones he's dealt with) but that's beside the point.

It isn't an issue of removing the expiration date from Dean's soul anymore, because Dean's soul simply isn't.

Sam's head is spinning, and he has to rest it on the cold wood of the library table for a moment before he can think straight again. If he's right... then the hellhounds have nothing to come after. A contract can't hold if the object it was created to wager against disappears.

Somehow, they've done it, completely on accident.

He can't allow himself to get too excited yet. Shoving the book into his bag, he leaves the library and hopes that Dean is awake when he gets back to the motel.

*

Dean's fingers twitch as he slides into the passenger seat. If he keeps telling himself he's got it under control, maybe it'll eventually be true. As it is, he's got to try to keep his breathing mediated and as sparing as possible to keep from inhaling Sam's scent in the small, enclosed space.

And it's hot too, damnit. He never did get around to fixing the air conditioner. If he keeps his cool on the outside, maybe Sam won't suspect anything.

It's the first time he's actually been able to ride in the car, conscious, for a long time. She springs to life and rumbles away beneath him, and for the first time in a while he feels sane. The idle is rough, too rough, and before he realizes he's doing it, he's planning what he'll do when he gets under the hood to fix it. And the air con too, if he can find that part it needs... maybe they're close enough to South Dakota to run to Bobby's and pick it up. He opens his mouth to ask Sam exactly where they are (it's disorienting not to know), and breathes in at exactly the wrong moment.

The husky, dark scent clogs his airways, nearly makes him choke, and yet his mouth waters. In some distant, still-human part of his brain, he's afraid that he's making sounds that'll screw this up. Something that'll clue Sam in to what's happening. The red haze completely overtakes him, because he can remember what that scent tastes like. It's iron, metallic, heavy on his tongue and sweet; sweeter than anything he's ever tasted before. He can't tell if that's from his new set of senses or his new preference for it, but either way, it's addicting.

He can feel his extra teeth growing, and hastily tries to close down his air passageways. It's probably a lost cause. The sound of his brother's beating heart bleeds out around the place he'd locked it away to be ignored and drives him crazy.

This is wrong. Sam should have put him out, like always. Sam trusts him not to be a bloodsucking monster, and after the past week or so, Dean doesn't know why. He hasn't proven to be the most human or trustworthy person. And yet Sam still sticks around (against Dean's wishes, of course), proof that just a sliver of the hero-worship he grew out of remains. He follows Dean with the faith that he never had in Dad, and that thought should not be so comforting.

Dean finally clamps down on the urges that literally course through his veins and boil the blood there (or at least that which remains his). He doesn't realize he's been digging his fingers unto his own thigh until he feels the answering pain. The quick, numbing shock of adrenaline is gone.

He settles back on the leather seat and tries to play it like he didn't just go half-crazy from the sound and smell of his baby brother in the seat next to him. A play like this is moot by now, though; he's pretty much proven he can't resist. Yet Sam believes he can, so he does. He hasn't completely given into the non-human that's nesting in his blood. Winchester blood.

He can do this.

"I've been researching," Sam starts out as he backs out of the motel's parking lot and back onto the highway. Dean sighs inwardly, letting his eyes slide closed.

"Yeah?" he finally musters up the courage to say.

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean cracks an eye open and watches him, worrying his bottom lip and staring out the windshield like he either doesn't know how to start a conversation like this or he'd rather not be having it. Dean's banking on the last option.

"I found this book," he finally blurts, apparently deciding that getting it all out there is better than beating around the bush. For now, anyway. "It's about vampires, obviously." He can almost hear the wince on the word, like he's forced to use it. And now that Dean thinks about it (because he doesn't want to hear this), nothing really is synonymous with 'vampire' besides 'leech' or 'monster', neither of which his brother would use if he could help it (he hopes).

"Obviously," Dean mutters, and clears his throat. "What'd you find?"

"It was a brief reference, but I've backed it up with others, just so you know. I'm not completely grasping at straws. Anyway, it talked about the state of a vampire's soul."

Ah, there it was.

"I can imagine that was a delightful read."

Sam chuckles darkly. "You have no idea. But the point I'm trying to make is... the general accepted fact through most of what I've found seems to lean toward the absence of a soul rather than the... decaying... state of it."

"So what you're saying is..." Dean trails off, trying to will himself to process all of this. It was a lot to process, admittedly. "What, I don't have a soul?"

"I, uh. Guess not."

Oh. Oh.

"Then tell me why you aren't dead right now." It's not possible. It's not. The Crossroads Demon clearly stated that if he tried to get out of his deal, Sam would die. So, no, he can't not have a soul.

"Well, yeah, there's that. But if you think about it... the demon's exactly words were that if you 'tried' to get out of it. I doubt you were 'trying' to get turned into a vampire. It's all in the details."

Dean's got to stop this before it gets out of hand. It doesn't work that way. Sam *knows* it doesn't work that way. They're both still breathing (metaphorically), so the Deal is still active and in place. He's still going to die and go to Hell in about three days, and there's nothing either of them can do to stop it.

And hell, if Dean had his way, they wouldn't even try. At least in Hell he'd be free of this disease. At least in Hell, he won’t be a vampire.

"No, Sam. It doesn't-- it's not possible. Stop trying to find a way around this, okay? There is no way around it." The I'm sorry he wants to tack on to the end of that doesn't quite come out of his throat, but he figures that's for the best. And it's not true. He's certainly not sorry that Sam's alive. Maybe he's slightly sorry about putting Sam through this in the first place, but if the kid wasn't so damn clever (and Dean was able to keep it from him), he wouldn't even know about it. And maybe it goes back further than that.

He's sorry he didn't get to Cold Oak in time to save Sam. He's sorry their father had to make a deal to keep him alive, and in the same vein, he's sorry that sacrifice turned out to be in vain. At least he'd kept his promise to his father, done the one thing he didn't have to be told to do. He'd kept Sammy safe.

Sam's jaw is set, determined. It's the face that tells Dean that Sam will have his way about this, if he has to drag Dean kicking and screaming all the way through it.

*

The warehouse they've picked is set away from the town they've rolled into. Dean thinks that's better, and at that point Sam's too anxious to object. He still thinks he's found the way out (or, rather, they stumbled upon the way out completely by a weird twist of fate; Dean figures if they've really got angels watching over them - even though there's definitely no solid proof in that direction - they've got a sick sense of humor).

He tells Sam to go back to the motel without lifting his eyes from the floor. He really wants to look at Sam, because he knows this'll probably be his last chance to see his brother before he's thrown (quite literally) to the wolves. He's sure that, once he's in the Pit, the demons will use Sam as a way to get him to break. He'd like to see him once last time before he's forced to reckon with that, but he can't bring himself to drag his eyes up from the dirty concrete.

"Dean..." Sam wants to argue this, and Dean can't take this right now. He won't, no so close.

"No," he interrupts. "Not now. Please."

He feels weak and exposed and none of it will matter in about a half an hour anyway. It won't matter to anyone but Sam what he said in his last few hours.

"Just, go back to the motel. I'll... I'll find you, if I'm okay. Don't come back here." Even as he says it, he knows Sam won't listen if he doesn't come back. It's a hopeless bid for a little bit of damage control.

Sam's crying now, and Dean wishes he wouldn't. It twists the knife lodged in his gut even deeper. This is his fault.

When he doesn't say anything else, Sam leaves. It's getting close now, and as broken and unwilling as he is; he wants to give Dean his final wish. If he really believed in his plan, would he be doing all of this?

It's not a very comforting thought to be having when one's about to be (or not be) dying. Violently. Painfully. He can try not to think about it, about anything.

He waits for the baying of the hounds.

Midnight comes and passes, and he hears nothing.

The grey haze that he's surrounded himself with lifts at half past the hour. He checks his phone just to be sure, blinks at the time display and checks it again.

He doesn't know what to say. Sammy was right. He... well, he's a soulless creature of the night that has to drink blood to survive, but at least he's not dead. Beyond the obvious.

Dean can't get his fingers to work enough to dial Sam's number. He has to try three times to find his phonebook to look for it. He's shaking, voice shot and mostly useless by the time he fumbles over the green button and listens to the ring.

"Oh my god," Sam says when he answers. He sounds like he's been crying, which Dean expected, and there's a note of triumph there, which he didn't, not really. "We won."


	6. Part Five

Sam can't tell if Dean is happy about the fact that he’s not going to Hell anytime soon. Despite the fact that he knows full well his brother can take care of himself, he still won't let him go out hunting by himself; his previous sentiments about leaving haven't left Sam completely, and he's not going to let his brother's protective streak - the part that thinks he'll do something irrevocably wrong to hurt Sam - and ha, look how that turned out - get in the way of their safety.

But he's going to have to get over his own protective streak to do what he plans to do. He tells himself at least Dean won't be hunter-fodder anymore. His brother won't like it, of course, but if everything pans out the way he hopes it will, Dean will never have to know.

He’s got to do this; it’s the second stage of the plan. Now that he’s saved Dean from Hell (like he promised), he’s going to go about finding a way to cure him and make him human again (because he promised that as well). It’s not really a question about whether he wants to do it or not, because he does want the outcome. It’s a means to an end.

And Dean’s not going to like it, which is why he’s not coming back.

Sam makes sure he's got everything he needs stashed away in his duffel, leaves the various weapons he's been toting spread on the dresser, and drops the car keys on the bedside table. Dean'll probably worry even more from the fact that he isn't armed, but in the coming months, Dean will probably need them more than he does.

He pauses, his toes on the faintly glowing line that surrounds the bed. There isn't much light in the room, just the orange glow of the streetlamp outside, and it casts shadows on Dean's slack face. He has a sudden urge to touch Dean, run his fingers along those shadows and kiss his mouth alive again.

But he can't. Ruby's waiting for him.

So instead, he turns and slips out as quietly as he can manage.

*

The sleek little sports car is waiting at the streetlight. The windows are tinted and the interior is dark; Sam can't see Ruby in the driver's seat, but he knows she's there. When he opens the door and climbs in, she asks, "Are you ready, Sam?"

He doesn't hesitate to answer her. "Yeah. Let's go."

The nearest dirt crossroads is just past the next town over (Sam knows this because he's researched it), at least thirty miles away. He wishes he were less ready at that moment, so that he could mentally prepare in the static space he's going to have to spend in Ruby's car. But he's ready now, and the process always works backwards; he'll be less ready when they actually get there.

Ruby tries to strike up a conversation several times (stupid things, or things she thinks he's going to need), but neither take. Sam stays silent as he watches the city's lights fade away, as they're replaced with the quiet, dark farmland. The cows are lined up in their field, either sleeping or eating, but Sam knows that in that next embankment of trees there's one that's completely dead and bloodless...

He tears his eyes away from the passing scenery and watches the broken white line instead.

*

When they finally get close, it's been too long. In reality, it's been less than half an hour, but Sam shouldn't have spent those silent moments with his own thoughts. The anxious itch rises underneath his skin, but he can do nothing to assuage it; at least, not until they actually get the demon to answer the summons. After that, there needn't be any more of these weak feelings.

He shudders, silently, while he still can.

They walk to the crossroads, leaving Ruby's car is parked back among the trees. They carry all of their supplies to the middle where they'll need them. While he digs the shallow hole at the estimated exact center, she takes everything out of the bag she's kept it in. With a can of red spray-paint, she carves out the sigil in the dirt. It's complicated, and it takes her a while to complete. Sam wonders how she knows it, exactly what they need and the arcane, ancient name of the thing they've got to call. But when she's done, she sets up the candles where the circles are and lights them, looking at him expectantly.

Of course, he's had the wooden box ready for a while. He pulls it out of his own bag and opens it, checking the contents, before he places it gently in the hole.

For a moment, Sam just breathes, doing the mental preparations he didn't need the first time he was ready and denied himself the second. He has to remember why he's doing this, and every time a memory that anything remotely to do with Dean, the knife that seems permanently lodged in his chest since that night at Oak Harbor twists and buries itself deeper, opening old wounds and creating new ones in it's wake. When he's done, when he's as ready as he thinks he'll ever be, He throws the dirt he's disturbed back on top of it and pats it back into place without disturbing any of the lines Ruby's so carefully administered to the dirt.

"Now we wait," she says softly, standing a few feet back from him with her arms crossed over her chest. He know she's got to be afraid as well; it's her boss they're calling, and her boss can't be all that thrilled with her at this point. Never mind the fact that it's about to change.

But they don't have to wait long.

Only a few moments after he steps back from the ritualistic scene they've laid out on the ground, the wind picks up, whipping around them with an unearthly roar and speed that makes Sam's eyes water. Ruby's eyes go completely black of their own accord, presence of a superior clear. His fingers itch for the flash of holy water he's used to keeping on his person, but he left it back at the hotel. It's probably a personal insult or something to even have it around when he's about to be surrounded by people that are affected by it.

He doesn't turn in place like he did the previous time he was forced to do this. He's facing South and he stays that way. It's no use. He's going to make her come to him.

When she does step out of the shadows of the trees, she looks like a normal person. Her eyes are clear, pristine blue; pretty, and Sam wonders if the person she's riding is still alive in there. As soon as she gets to the northern edge of the crossroads, her eyes roll back and she stands there, almost awkward in a human form. Of course, he's had experience with demons and other things that possess humans, so he can recognize it; it might not be so clear to a normal person. The complete, milky white of her eyes is unnerving. She tilts her head, dark hair cascading down her shoulders loosely.

"Sam," she says, nodding her head slightly like she's happy to see him. "I've been expecting you." And isn't that a comforting thought.

"Lilith," he answers, meeting her plain white gaze like he can see fear there. It's just this side of defiant and disgusted (which is what he is), but he's got to keep it in check. He's got to be civil, even if she won't, even if she'll take the handle of the metaphorical dagger sticking out of his chest and grind it deeper and deeper, twist and wiggle it until it sticks out of his back. And when she's done and her hands and covered in his blood, she'll lick them clean and grin at him with crimson lips and his blood dripping down her chin.

Behind him, he can hear Ruby shifting her weight from foot to foot, the creak of her leather boots as she moves. She's uncomfortable with the situation, which strikes him as odd. She's the one who got him into this, in a roundabout way. She planted the idea in his mind and goaded him to follow it. Ruby should be the most at ease in this situation, but she's cracking under the pressure of the tension between the three of them.

Lilith is the first to speak, though, and Sam lets her think she's holding all the cards. "Why are you here, by the way? I mean, I knew you'd do it at some point, it was just a matter of time, but... what do you want from me? And why do you think I would do anything for you in the first place? You found a loophole and lost me the contract to your brother's soul. And I wanted that, Sam. You have no idea how much I wanted to hear him scream." She closes her eyes in parody of human bliss. Sam's fists clench at his sides.

"I want you to cure him," he says, forthright, and his voice doesn't shake. He doesn't have time to be proud of it. "I will do whatever you want me to do. Just, please. Cure him."

She feigns thinking about it. As she's about to open her mouth to answer (in the negative, he thinks, somewhat desperately), her eyes focus on Ruby. "Oh, Ruby! Fancy meeting you here. And nice job, too, getting the Winchester boy to follow with your plan. Knew you'd make me proud."

An ice-cold numbness floods Sam's body, and without thinking he turns to look at her. That's why... that's how she knew what to do. That's why she was so eager to let him do it. He can feel the blood between his fingers, and he knows his fingernails have dug too deeply into the skin. But he doesn't feel the pain. "You..."

Ruby meets his gaze with her midnight eyes and shakes her head, disbelieving. "Sam, I--"

"Aw, trouble in paradise." Lilith tsks. "Too bad. I understand why you wouldn't have told him. Very clever of you, by the way. But I don't have time for silly squabbles such as this. Tell me, Sammy," she grins, takes great delight in stretching his name out. "Do you still want me to cure your brother? Are you sure you'd do *anything* for me to have him cured?" She bats her eyelashes at him innocently, and Sam turns back to face her, trying to block out the nervous creaking of Ruby's boots as she shifts behind him. It's too much to process right now. And besides, it's not like she sold him to her or anything. She just put him on that path.

And Dean'll be cured.

"Yes," he bites out, meeting her eyeless gaze again, not even bothering to hide it now.

"Ah, I see..." her eyes close and her head tips up. She inhales deeply. "Dean was right. Your blood does smell... delicious." When she opens them again, they're back to the crystalline blue of her human host. Something in Sam's gut tightens and he wants nothing more in that moment to send her back to hell, where she belongs. But he needs her, unfortunately. "Ah! That gives me an idea."

Lilith's smile is wicked. "You did mean *anything*, didn't you? Because I'm afraid," she titters, a silly little laugh that makes Sam want to hurt her, "I do have an offer for you. Oh, but you aren't going to like it. Neither of you are." He doesn't know if she's referring to him and Ruby or him and Dean. Maybe both.

"Yeah?"

"I won't give you very long to decide. And if you decline and walk away from this crossroads, I won't ever make you the same offer again."

"What do I have to do?" Sam growls.

"It's simple, really. Just fulfilling your destiny. I'm rather generous for offering something as painless as this is going to be. I want you to do what Azazel created you to do. I want you to be my human commander."

She needn't say more; he knows what she's talking about. But Sam had assumed that the only think Yellow-Eyes wanted a human for was to open the gates of hell and unleash the demons teeming within. That was done now, as illustrated by the two he’s standing with. His plan was done. But that hadn't explained why he'd had to feed all of his 'children' demon blood.

There is something else. His determination falters.

"What does it entail?"

Lilith laughs, high and cold, "Oh, you're asking for details? You better be grateful I don't pulverize you on the spot for being so naive. But I'm in a good mood, so..." she twirls a dark curl between her fingertips. "What it entails. Let's see. You'd be serving under me, of course. And Ruby would have to teach you how to develop those powers you've got just bursting to get out. You'd have to maim and torture the innocent, and, being mostly human-" she exaggerates the 'mostly' "- you'd have to be our reconnaissance and go where we can't.

"But think about it, Sam... You get your own army of these black-eyed vermin to do your bidding." Her lips curl up in a sneer. "It'll be wonderful, once you get used to it. Once you unlock that hidden part of yourself that lusts for the blood and sulfur... it's so good, seeing them worship you like you're their *God* or something."

He almost chokes on the irony of it.

"You know you want it," she finishes with a smile that's supposed to be seductive or enticing, but Sam's seeing red anyway. He doesn't want to give in to the dark pulse deep inside. He doesn't want to lose himself to it. He doesn't want to lose Dean, or his humanity, or any of it.

But to save his brother, he'll have to.

Dean sold his soul to bring him back when he was already dead; if Sam hadn't found the loophole (completely on accident), he'd be in hell right now. He deserves it, as much as he doesn't think he does. And, this way, Sam can pay him back for all the years he took care of him.

It's over.

"I'll do it," something constricts painfully in his chest. "I'll be your human commander."

"Alright then," Lilith is grinning like a kid in a candy store, now. "You brother's cured. Didn't that feel good? Ruby's going to take you, now, and show you what being a demon's like. I'd tell you not to go back to your brother, but..." she laughs again. "You weren't planning to. He wouldn't approve, would he? Oh, well, it's not like it matters. I'll be checking in," she adds, and when he blinks she's gone.

He lets himself give in, then, and sinks to his knees, curled in on himself. He doesn't cry. He just kneels there with his eyes closed, wrestling with the dirty feeling inside of himself. He's got to be happy. He's doing it for Dean. Dean never once complained or acted scared when he was going to hell.

So Sam lets go of the feeling (though it lingers uncomfortably, in the way his stomach clenches with anticipation and the self-preservation instinct in his brain makes it almost impossible to move his legs) and stands up. Ruby's watching him carefully.

"Let's go," he intones, and his voice is not broken or scared like he is inside. It's cold and accepting and doesn't give anything away. Ruby's eyes are back to normal, and the light from the candles flicker off her blonde hair. There's fear there. But she hides it well, and they walk back to where her car is hidden.

"Where are we going?" She asks once she's back in the driver's seat, keys in the ignition already.

"Cold Oak, South Dakota."

*

Dean comes awake with a gasp, like a drowning man breaking the surface of a turbulent wave he's been caught under. The room is dark, darker than it should be, and the only thing he can hear is the pass of cars on the highway outside.

He feels strangely like he's deaf in one ear after being subjection to the usual onslaught of sound. He's aware of his stomach on fire, broiling worse than he's ever felt it before. The wave of nausea comes not long after, and he clutches at the side of the bed, scrambling for purchase on legs that shake so horribly that he can barely get them to work.

He's not quite sure which direction the bathroom is in, but he stumbles toward where he thinks it should be; the door is closed and he gropes for the handle.

When he finally gets it open, he only makes it to the sink before the contents of his stomach empty. He sputters and gags against the acidic taste of bile mixed with the metallic, iron taste of blood. It's overwhelming all at once, and if there were anything solid left in his body he would have brought it up. As it is, he heaves dry for a while, wheezing in breath when he can get a chance to.

Blindly, he fumbles for the light. His eyes haven't adjusted to the dark like they should have (and for that matter, they shouldn't have to; he should be able to see in the dark as perfectly as he could in the daylight). When the fluorescents kick on, he's momentarily blinded.

But when he can see again, he glances down at the bowl of the off-white porcelain sink. The red-black blood is startling, dark contrast against it. He leans against the sink, letting it hold his weight as he just breathes, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. To say that he looks like shit would be a gross understatement; there are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is unnaturally pale, tinged green.

Dean realizes as he stands there panting that he shouldn't have been able to leave the protective circle around his bed. He wants to glance back and confirm that it's still there, but he can't will himself to turn. It takes monumental effort to turn the water on, wash the blood down the sink because he can't stand to look at it anymore.

Several minutes later, he musters enough strength to push himself away from the sink and leaves the light on and the door open so he can see in the main room of the hotel.

The line of chalk remains, unbroken on the floor, sigils and characters as complete and perfect as ever. All of it is glowing, which means it's still in effect. He shouldn't be able to cross it. He frowns at it on his way to the switch by the door, stumbling every few steps and almost slicing his hand on a knife laid out on the dresser when he holds onto it for support.

It's very obvious, by this point, that Sam is gone. The bed without the circle around it doesn't even look slept in, perfectly made and unruffled. As the overhead light comes on, he notices the various weapons laid out on the dresser; knives, various other blades, and the gun that Sam always uses. Which means that wherever he is, he isn't armed.

Automatically, his mind flies to about fifty different scenarios, none of them good. He pulls the heavy curtains back and checks the outside. The car is still there, and there's the lingering haze of the rising sun on the horizon. It's almost dawn. Wherever Sam's gone, it's got to be on foot, but he'd be gone by now, especially if he left shortly after Dean fell asleep last night.

He'd like to punch something, but he can barely curl his fingers into a fist. He's never been good at not expressing his anger physically (at least, not for the long haul. There'd always been some evil sonofabitch to take it out on). Instead he just stands there for a moment, suddenly aware of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with his missing brother. Now that it's settled, he's hungry, like he hasn't eaten in months. But that's probably true.

But that brings him around to the truth of things. He's not a vampire anymore. The taste and smell of blood nauseate him (as shown by the display in the bathroom) and he can walk across binding circles without feeling even the slightest twinge of gravity pulling him back. Decisively, he runs his tongue along the gum above his human teeth, feeling for the row that would distend there. But all that remains are the tough bumps of scar tissue where they used to be.

So he's human again. And he's not in Hell, which means that they probably skipped the expiration date on his living soul altogether. Or...

And Sam's gone.

"The hell did you do?" he asks the room at large, but he hardly recognizes his own voice, raspy now, and unbelievably dry. The words scraping out of his throat make him cough.

The car keys are on the table, he notices as he makes a second sweep of the room. There's a channel guide on top of the TV, inside a clear plastic stand that reads "Childress Inn" across the base in blocky blue letters. Underneath is the address.

They're in Childress, Texas.

Next to this is a menu for a local place that delivers, and Dean is distracted by it. He hasn't eaten in... longer than he can remember. The thought of actually eating compels him to search through his duffel, waiting on the other side of the bed, for cash or a credit card or *something*.

When he finds a brand new stack of unused cards, he feels a sudden flare of pride that he pushes away, reaching for the phone and ordering one of everything on the menu.

*

Sometime later, he gathers everything from around the room and shoves it into his bag, only taking Sam's gun and tucking it into his jacket. He's got to get into the trunk and take inventory, find his gun because Sam's feels wrong in his hand. He doesn't take any time to recuperate, just shoves everything into the backseat and fits the key into the Impala's ignition.

The wheel is familiar beneath his hands, scarred leather that fits him perfectly. When he turns her engine, she purrs and springs to life immediately, like she's grateful that he's the one back in the driver's seat.

When he puts her in reverse, the brakes squeal and she shifts hard on acceleration.

Dean adds 'taking care of my car' to the growing list of things he's going to kick Sam's ass about when he finds him.


	7. Epilogue

There are close to five hundred messages on Sam’s cell phone. Most of them are from Dean, with the occasional one from Bobby, but they all hold the same sentiment. _“Where the hell are you?” “What the fuck did you do?” “When I find you – and I will – I’m going to kick your ass.”_

He disregards them all. After a certain point he even stops listening, because the sound of Dean’s voice pulls at something inside of him that’s too human for comfort.

If he had listened to them all, he might have actually heard his brother – how pissed he was at first, worried, defeated. And how, after Sam’s been gone for months, numb.

But he doesn’t give himself the luxury of letting this impact him. He could destroy the cheap metal with a thought, twist it and turn it to dust, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

*

There are no messages on Dean’s phone, and after the first six months he stops caring. He knows, now, that he isn’t ever going to get a call back, yet every day like clockwork he turns his phone on and dials Sam’s number. It’s become part of his daily routine, hearing Sammy’s voice through the speaker and leaving another message that means nothing because he doesn’t have the words anymore.

He’s seen most of the country from the Impala, in both the back seat and the front; been though more nameless towns then he can count. He’s never kept track of them before, even when he was little and there was nothing else to do on two- or three-day hauls. The continental United States is big enough to get lost in, and the chances of passing through the same backwater towns more than once aren’t very high.

Now he’s got a roadmap on the seat next to him with red X’s on every page.

There’s no way to tell if Sam is alive, but Dean can’t let himself dwell on that for too long. He has to believe he is; there is no other option. He always seems to be one step behind, always chasing at Sam’s heels. No matter how long he drives, how hard he pushes the car or how much ground he covers – Sam always preempts what he’ll do next.

He’s starting north again after his latest sweep of the Southeast. It occurs to him that he’s approaching the place where this particular line of bullshit started. He hate it, hates this part of the country more than words can describe and like he never did before.

But he’s got to check, at least. He owes Sam that much.

*

Dean remembers Oak Harbor like he’s remembering it from another lifetime. Everything is the same, because places like this never change. As he always does, he searches for Sam’s face in the people on the street, the drivers he passes. But as always, he isn’t there. Maybe it’s too obvious. Maybe he should leave it alone.

Then he sees the yellow police tape.

*

“Cause of death?”

“Unknown, as of yet. The body was found completely drained of blood, though.”

Dean nearly drops the pad he’s taking notes on.

“Uh, do you have ID on the body?”

“No, not yet. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report. Say, do you think this’ll make the front page?”

*

Son of a bitch.

It’s the middle of the day. The sun is high in the sky, no clouds, and Dean drives thirty miles over speed to get to the place where the nest was last time. His knives are soaked, machete gleaming in the seat next to him. He’s going to finish what they started.

There are two of them sprawled on the floor of the warehouse, pale and bloated, passed out like drunks. They don’t stir when he approaches, as he sticks his knife through one’s gut and decapitates the other with one swift movement.

It’s over in less than five minutes, and he didn’t even get bloody.

It’s clear that Sam is not in Oak Harbor.

*

He’s halfway down through Missouri when he gets the call. His phone trills, wrapped in the map beside him, and he gropes for it with one hand. When he opens it, he raises it straight to his ear without glancing at the display.

“Yeah?”

“We got trouble,” Bobby’s voice is stretched thin and rushed.

“What’s going on?” Deans asks automatically, and when the other line goes momentarily dead, he adds, “Bobby!”

“Pull over. It’s big.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean obliges.

“Something huge just rolled onto radar,” he continues without confirmation. “Freak lightning storms, mostly, but this area… it’s like it’s in a protective bubble. Weather bounces off and the trees are so thick on all sides we can’t see inside.”

“Demonic omens?”

“Big ones. The thing summoning this up has got to be powerful.”

Dean rustles around for something to write with and gets his atlas. “Where?”

“C’mon, boy, you ain’t going. If I tell you you’ll be gone before I finish the address.”

“Where, Bobby?”

“Damnit, Dean. You’re not gonna like it.”

Dean waits, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

“Cold Oak,” Bobby says, tone unreadable.

Dean drops the phone. It clatters to the floor loudly, and he can still hear Bobby’s voice issuing out of the tiny speaker.

Cold Oak, South Dakota. The disgust and realization leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Dean feels the cold mud under his knees again, Sam slumped forward against him as he tries to reassure him that it’s not even that bad… we’re gonna patch you up, okay? I got you - even as the light leaves Sam’s eyes.

His phone gets lost somewhere under the seat and he’s damn lucky there isn’t any other car on the road; he peels off the shoulder and turns the Impala with gut-wrenching force into the opposite lane.

*

Sometime early the next morning, before it’s even light, he finds Cold Oak. It’s not exactly easy; there are maps, of course, but most of the area has grown over since he was here last, almost two years ago. He can’t see the road through the brush all over it. There’s a line of darker, denser forest, and that must be where the trees were last time.

Gearing up with what he thinks he’ll need, he leaves the car parked behind a particularly dense stand of trees and starts through the forest.

There are roots everywhere, gnarled and twisted, sticking up from the ground or curling along it, covered in fallen leaves and just waiting to be tripped over. Dean picks his path carefully, and with the groundcover as unrelenting as it is it takes him nearly three times longer than it would have normally.

And isn’t it around here somewhere? He doesn’t remember it taking even twice this long to reach the stand of dilapidated buildings when Bobby was with him. And he’s gone in a straight line, so he shouldn’t be lost.

“Oh, you aren’t lost,” says a voice by his elbow, dark and cheerful. He jumps and rounds on the voice, hand automatically reaching for his gun.

But there are five demons behind him, black eyes shining in what little morning light penetrates the thick treetops, all grinning like they’ve just found a new toy.

He opens his mouth to say something, but next moment there’s blunt pain on his skull and everything goes dark.

*

The first thing Dean’s aware of when he wakes up is the familiar stretched feeling that’s settled into his arms and shoulders. He’s gotten so used to the feeling of being tied-up in the past few months that it’s sort of pathetic how fast he can push down the urge to struggle. Instead, he relaxes against it and rests his weight elsewhere – he’s near the ground, so it’s easy enough.

Once this uneasy evaluation is done, he moves to less pressing concerns – the ringing in his ears, the pounding in his head and the tenderness that comes with the slightest movement.

He doesn’t know where he is, but he’s been there for a while.

There’s no sound of movement around him – no breathing, no rustle of clothing or hushed voices, so he assumes he’s alone and cracks an eye open.

The room he’s in is entirely made of wood, old wood. The ends of the floorboards stick up where they’re warped and peeling apart. Dust motes are heavy in the air and there’s the smell of rot now that he’s aware enough to distinguish it. As his eyes adjust to the semi-light that’s filtering through the dirty glass, he realizes there’s blood on the floor and that it must be his.

Then he remembers the demons in the forest.

He’s going to open his mouth to shout for them, send them running in his direction and think of the rest of the plan when they get here, but his voice is extremely hoarse and he can’t even hear himself when he tries. So he stays quiet in the darkness, taking the time to assess his situation, strain his ears for any signs of life.

Dean can’t decide which is worse: the demons hanging around or the demons just leaving him here, strung up and left for dead. But he still doesn’t know where he is, and he has no idea how he’s going to get free.

Suddenly, he feels light-headed and has to rest his head back against the wood of the wall he’s been propped against. It’s closer than he expects and a muffled thunk accompanies the movement.

There’s a shuffle along the hallway, and every nerve in Dean’s body is on edge.

The door creaks open a moment later, like they’re trying to create some sort of atmosphere. At the last moment, he decides to rest his head back again and close his eyes, level out his breathing and pulse like he’d been taught. Play unconscious, and they won’t mess with you.

Only this one doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo on that. Dean can hear its sickly breath, like he doesn’t know how to breathe using his human body’s nose and mouth in tandem. He hears it come close, feels the feather-light touch on his cheek and decidedly doesn’t flinch away when it runs it’s forefinger down his face.

“Pretty,” it says, wheezing out the words like a promise. “Gonna break so pretty for me.”

And then its finger is gone and a moment later he feels its palm come down against the spot he was just touching, stinging pain and the slap of flesh painfully loud in the silence. “Gonna cut you open and see if you’re just as pretty inside…”

*

The next time he regains consciousness, there are voices all around. A chorus of jeers and endearments designed to catch his attention, but he doesn’t have the strength left to even raise his head and glare at them.

*

Dean weaves in and out of awareness. Sometimes he can feel their hands on him, hurting him, and other times it’s the deafening, ringing silence. He wishes now that they’d left him.

*

The light shifts. The temperature here is cooler, which doesn’t go a long way to explaining where exactly ‘here’ is, but it does mean he’s been moved.

He can’t feel his arms, so he can’t tell if they’re still strung up or not. He can’t even tell if he’s actually conscious or just dreaming he is. He can’t feel anything.

And he aches a little less, which is the best he can hope for. For a while he just lays there (he’s horizontal – he can tell that much) and tries to assess exactly what’s going on. It takes longer than he would have expected to gather enough energy to move, and even then it’s only to shift a little. He can’t lift his head.

Distantly, he’s aware of a small noise that struggles its way out of his throat.

After a few moments of this mindless, blind consciousness, Dean gathers enough courage to crack an eye open and take in his surroundings. He hasn’t heard movement from the room around him, so he assumes he must be alone.

He’s wrong.

The room is surprisingly dark; there’s a soft light issuing from somewhere he can’t see, and it casts everything in tones of yellow and sepia. The walls are wooden, rustic, but in better conditions than those of the room he’d been kept in. He seems to be lying on a pallet or cot of some kind – the first he’s felt in a long time, as long as they’ve been keeping him there, and his first instinct is to just sink into it and fall back into the darkness.

But then there’s shifting beside him, and he realizes there’s a chair drawn up close to the cot.

Sam is sitting there, staring at him with absolutely no emotion. He would startle if he was able to, but his limbs are leaden and pressed to the mattress with their own weight.

He wants to open his mouth – say something, anything, even if he doesn’t know what – but he finds he can’t move.

“Shh,” Sam says, and his voice is laced with something dark and swirling. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Dean struggles for a moment, trying to communicate any sort of distress or panic, but it feels like someone’s pulled a sheet tight over him or something. All he can do is stare right back at Sam with the one eye he’d managed to open and try to say everything that he doesn’t have the words to express.

Sam stares back at him for a moment. “Sleep,” he intones when he’s had enough of this silent contest, and almost immediately Dean falls back into a restless black sleep.

*

If hearing Dean’s voice awakened something in him that still felt, seeing him alive (and maimed) is what breaks the dam. Until now, he’s kept his humanity walled up as tight as possible, and now it threatens to flood him.

When Sam’s finished with the demons that had been torturing his brother (which takes longer than he expected, once he got down to it), he goes and sits by Dean’s bed.

He wishes, then, that he had the power to do anything but destroy. His fingers itch to do something, but in this he’s helpless. He takes all of the supplies he can find and puts them on the table they’ve managed to drag from somewhere, binding the various wounds and abrasions to the best of his ability.

Then he waits.

There’s something mirroring compassion in the way he cares for Dean – like this never happened and he never let Ruby manipulate him into choosing the worst way out. Something flickers inside that he hasn’t known for a while, something that belongs completely to the person he was a year ago and still nearly entirely to Dean.

It scares him like he didn’t think he could scare anymore. It scares him more when Dean starts to stir and threatens to reopen the wounds Sam had painstakingly stitched shut. He does something he vowed never to do, then; he holds him there with nothing more than a thought. He uses this dirty, unforgiving power on his brother like he has any right to.

Despite Ruby’s almost constant insistence that he has other matters to attend to, he sits day and night by his brother’s side and waits for him to come around.

*

When he finally does, nearly a week after Sam found out he was the prisoner all the demons were talking about catching, most of his wounds have closed and are starting to mend on a deeper level. He still aches, but Dean finds he can move now, at least.

He first wakes to an empty room and resists the urge to call for Sam. He wants to yell at him, demand explanations – anything to make this okay. But it’s not ever going to be okay. And a small part of him still thinks he’s hallucinating.

Which is pretty fucked, yeah, but it makes it a lot easier to deal with. He can deal with the inner-workings of his own mind. This though? Not so much.

Dean’s sitting up when Sam finally returns. In that moment, when the door creaks open on rusty hinges, the air is so thick between them that it’s hard to breathe. Sam stares and can’t settle on one expression; confusion, hurt, fear, a small bit of defiance and that terrible expressionless look that defines everything and nothing at once.

For a moment, they just stare at each other.

“What’s going on, Sam?” Dean asks quietly, staring down at his hands instead. They lay useless in his lap, contrast to the white bedspread; he wants to curl them into fists because he’s sure he looks too vulnerable right now, but his knuckles are scabbed over. One of his wrists is wrapped and it’s uncomfortable to even think about using his fingers.

So he settles for setting his jaw and hoping, praying, that Sam is still in there somewhere. He doesn’t have any reason to believe he isn’t, but something uncomfortable and unfamiliar settles in his stomach and tells him otherwise.

Sam shuts the door behind him and moves forward to sit in the chair he was occupying the first time Dean woke up here. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leans forward and buries his hands in his own hair. “It’s complicated.”

“What did you do?”

“I... I fixed you, like I said I would.” Sam says it like it’s all the answer Dean should need.

“How? What kind of deal did they cut you, Sam? What’d you have to do? How long did they give you?” Dean doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes because he’s afraid of what he’ll find there. His hands do curl into fists then, scabs breaking as blood runs down and stains the white sheets crimson. A tendon in his wrist twitches.

Sam makes a short, abortive movement like he wants to patch him up again, but stays where he is. There’ve been lines drawn, now, while they both weren’t looking.

“It’s… not like that.” He says finally, and then sighs, shifts around like he can’t get comfortable and finally settles for standing up. He towers over the cot like this, stormy and anxious; Dean’s almost gathered enough resolve to stand as well and be on equal footing when Sam finally moves back toward the one small window in the room.

“Then what’s it like?”

“You aren’t going to like it.”

“I already knew that. Tell me.”

Sam sighs. “I just have to let Ruby teach me how to use all that psychic stuff to my advantage. And keep the demons here in line, which isn’t all that difficult.”

There’s silence for a moment.

“So, wait. You’re basically doing what Yellow-Eyes wanted. You’re using that shit he gave you to… to what, Sam? What do you get out of this?”

“You. Human and whole again and safe from Hell for the moment. It’s not… it’s not bad, Dean. You should see the things I can do now.”

Dean snorts. “You can’t think this is right.”

“Maybe not,” Sam turns back to face him. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

And there’s no argument Dean can present to counteract that, because he knows why Sam did it. Given the chance, he would have done the same. Has done the same in the past. It doesn’t make it okay, but it’s justification.

“I should kick your ass. There are people out there dying because of you.”

Some other emotion flares in Sam’s eyes at that, a deep burning anger that’s mostly self-loathing. But he hates Dean for having pointed it out.

“Think about it, though,” he says, low and cruel. His anger is a palpable thing, thickening the air with more than the previous tension. “If you’d let me die when you had the chance, all this wouldn’t have happened.”

Before Dean can think about it or feel the accompanying aches, he’s up off the cot. Sam’s drawn up to his full height, which should intimidate Dean considering what Sam’s just told him about using his psychic stuff. He’s closer to his brother than he’s been in months and there’s a challenge in Sam’s face. Sam’s trying to pick a fight.

Now, when they haven’t spoken for what feels like forever and Sam’s become what he was born to become. Or, at least, made to be.

“Don’t you say that to me. No matter what you do or how many people you have to kill to do it, you don’t get to make me feel guilty about that.”

Sam rolls his shoulders and half-shrugs. “Then stop trying to be my moral compass. I know what I did and why I did it. I’m doing it, all of it, for you.”

“Who asked you to?”

Dean hadn’t realized they’d been yelling until the silence starts. It’s a pointless argument. They’re just going to go around in circles because they’re too alike and too different all at the same time. The pain shoots up his legs and his knees threaten to buckle on him. He wobbles a little uncertainly before moving back to the cot and sitting down.

“I can’t… I can’t let you do this, Sam. I promised.”

Sam laughs, humorless. “You promised Dad you’d kill me if it came to this? Fine then. I’ll let you go get the Colt if you think you can do it.”

It’s meant to be mocking. It’s meant to cut deep and play on Dean’s weaknesses, but he has to agree. “I can’t do it, Sam. I can’t kill you and I can’t let you kill people. I can’t… I have to go.”

He goes to get up again and nearly falls over. Sam’s right there, gripping his arm and steadying him, reminding him at exactly the wrong time just how good a team they made. Would make again, if their agendas hadn’t crossed.

“Where are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t stay here and watch you do this. I’m gonna keep doing what I do, Sam. I have to. You do whatever you want.”

He plants a hand in the center of Sam’s chest and pushes him away, nearly overbalancing himself, but he manages to make it to the door.

“You mind calling your dogs off, or are they gonna catch me and drag me back?”

“Dean,” Sam says softly. “You can’t just leave.”

“I can’t stay,” Dean answers, repeating himself. He wants to make sure Sam knows this. Maybe it’s a vain, selfish hope to think that he can get down into whatever dark pit Sam’s thrown himself in and help drag him back out, but it’s worth a try.

There are tears running down Sam’s face as Dean turns and wraps a hand around the doorknob.

*

He makes it out of the dense woods easily enough, and it takes him another two hours or so to find where he parked the car. The weeds have grown up, and Dean’s got to check the date to know exactly how long he was there.

But he aches all over, is probably bleeding from wounds re-opened from his exertion, and when he stops and braces himself on the dust-covered hood, he realizes he’s crying as well.

It takes all of his willpower to get back into the car and drive away.

But it’s better now, somehow. Sam’s alive. He knows where he is now, so if he fools himself long enough and hard enough, he can believe it’s not that different from Sam’s time at college.

Except it is different. It’s so different it nearly makes him sick.

Then, Sam was doing something for himself, possibly for the first time in his life. Now, he’s doing it for Dean. He’s killing people for Dean.

Eventually, he’ll have to handle it. Eventually he’ll have to do more than run away and ignore it. As much as he wants to pretend it wasn’t happening, Sam is constantly lurking in the back of his thoughts.

Of course, Sam has always been the center of his own little universe, even if he denies it.

But it’s different now.

Now he’s not gone off to school with a girlfriend and a degree and a white-picket fence.

Now he’s a demon hybrid, killing people because he’s told to, or because he has to.

Dean can’t deal with that.

So he runs.

*

He doesn’t call after that, because there’s no point anymore. He doesn’t enter South Dakota for anything if he can help it, and even then he stays as far away from Cold Oak as possible.

Dean tries to stay away from cases involving demons as well, but as they grow more prevalent and out-of-control, it’s difficult. He doesn’t tell Bobby when he calls; not about Sam, not about anything, because he’s afraid Bobby would do the sensible thing and hunt him.

Dean doesn’t sleep.

One morning, when the sun’s just starting to make the room lighter and he’s been up all night again, he turns on the TV. The news is on, talking about murders and gas prices and the failing economy (and that’s what people have to worry about?), and he’s halfway to zoned out when a breaking story comes on.

There’s a small town in South Dakota that’s been completely demolished.

He’s out of the door before the newscaster finishes her sentence.

*

By ten, he’s on the highway that leads straight past Cold Oak. There’s smoke everywhere, blacking out the sky and creating an inky overcast. It’s hot, but Dean has to roll the windows up to keep from choking to death.

It smells like death. It smells like destruction and bad news and he really, really needs to find Sam.

And that’s when he sees the tiny dot in the distance.

South Dakota is mostly flat. At least, this stretch of highway is; you can see several miles into the distance if your eyes are good enough. A long way ahead, someone is walking on the side of the road.

He floors it.

As he draws closer, breaking hard to stop from moving past, his heart jackhammers in his chest.

Under all the dirt and grime and dust that’s everywhere, he finds Sam. Walking along the road like he’s trying to get somewhere. He finally looks up at the sound of the engine drawing closer. His eyes widen, deer caught in headlights, and he stops. Shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

As the car sidles up next to him, he leans down and Dean rolls down the window.

“They’re after me,” is the first thing he says. Dean worries his lip. “If they aren’t, they will be soon.”

“What happened?”

“I got tired of being a tool. I kind of… leveled it.”

“I heard. It’s all over the news.”

“Shit, they should be here soon.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Get in.”

Sam looks at him, open and human and completely his brother. Even if it’s just for that one moment, even if it’s just for right now.

He opens the door and crawls in, spreading dust and grime wherever he touches, but Dean doesn’t care. He’s halfway between angry and elated, and he doesn’t know which to act on.

For a moment they idle there, both staring out of the windshield because looking at the destruction is better than looking at each other.

They can talk later.

For now, Dean feeds another tape into the deck and James Hetfield sings about another lonely highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin.


End file.
